


Emancipation, Evolution, and Other Things that Start with 'E'

by luulapants



Series: Things that Start with 'E' [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Check story notes for triggers/spoliers, Controlling Behavior, Daddy Kink, Dark Peter Hale, Drug Use, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, End game Sterek, Escort Stiles Stilinski, Eventual Happy Ending, Lots of tough shit in this, M/M, POV Stiles Stilinski, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Police Officer Derek Hale, Professor Peter Hale, Sexual Violence, Slow burn on the second half, Unhappy Beginning and Middle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-12-28 16:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 90,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luulapants/pseuds/luulapants
Summary: Stiles has had a rough go of things pretty much his whole life, and he thought he'd learned all of the important lessons by now: trust no one, question everything, and always have an escape plan.Then he meets Peter Hale, and it all sort of goes sideways.---------------------------------There are a lot of rough situations in this fic, so I've done my best to list out potential triggers in the notes, aside from those in the tags. If I miss something, please let me know. This is a dark story depicting a toxic relationship and is intended to be viewed as a look at 'how it gets that bad' rather than sensationalizing or fetishizing those toxic elements. There are elements that are similar to BDSM, but no BDSM etiquette to speak of, so I haven't tagged it as such.There's a happy ending, but it's a long road there. Buckle up.





	1. Escort

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any specific questions about triggers, please feel free to email faceclaimdatabaselady@gmail.com and I'm happy to answer!

Stiles didn’t even know what he was fucked up on. More than booze, though he was definitely still drunk from last night. Whatever it was they’d given him, it had made for a wild night. Whatever. They’d paid him well enough. Originally, they said they just wanted him to strip and do lap dances for their buddy’s birthday. One thing led to another, and by the end of the night, he was flush with cash.

He couldn’t decide if he needed to puke or not.

Stiles had passed out briefly on the couch, woke up a little before ten, then stumbled out of the frat house. At the bottom of the steps, he looked back at the innocuous-looking brown brick house. A gay fraternity. God bless the University of California.

In the tender light of morning, UCBH’s fraternity row could almost be mistaken for a quiet, suburban street – if one ignored the beer cans sitting on top of hedges. Stiles weaved unsteadily down the sidewalk. He was wearing tight black pants that zipped down the sides, a white mesh tank top, and a red zip-up hoodie, a bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair was mussed up, the gel from last night leaving it in improbable shapes after sleeping on it and having it grabbed all night.

He really wasn’t watching where he was going, focused on whether or not he needed to hurl, when he stepped into the street. He heard the car before he saw it and froze, eyes wide.

With a screech, it lurched to a halt just a foot away from him. Stiles stood stock still, pulse hammering unevenly in his ears. His life hadn’t flashed before his eyes, but if it had, it would have been short and full of things he didn’t want to think about anyway.

What he did think was, _damn, nice car._ It was a sleek gray Lexus, something between sedan and sports car. From it emerged a stern-looking man with a black blazer over a dark green Henley, hair slicked back. “What the hell is the matter with you!” he snarled.

“God, sorry, man,” Stiles said, giving a nervous laugh. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked back in the direction of the frat house. Ugly frat boy pencil dicks were almost his last memory on earth. Great.

“I could have killed you,” he man continued, seemingly intent on delivering a lecture. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to look both ways before crossing the street?”

Stiles snorted. “I mean, probably,” he joked to himself, then looked at the man again. He looked older, but not old-old. Old in a way that kind of did it for Stiles. “Look, m’sorry, I’m just...” With that, he took a couple more stumbling steps in his journey across the street.

Faster than he could process what was happening to him, there were firm hands on his shoulders yanking him backward as an SUV, whipping around the Lexus, whizzed past maybe six inches in front of him, honking as it went past.

“Fuck,” Stiles said, a bit delayed.

The man spun him around, grabbing him by the chin and inspecting his eyes with his own piercing blue-gray ones. “What are you on?” he demanded. He had a goatee, sharp cheek bones, and a furious intensity that made Stiles think maybe he already knew the answer to whatever he was asking.

Fuck, he must have looked rough to be getting this sort of concern off a stranger. Perhaps it was a testament to just how fucked up he was, but Stiles’s reaction to the question wasn’t to immediately deny being on anything. Instead, he made a comical smirking sort of shrug that clearly said, _How the fuck would I know?_ He laughed.

“Where do you live?” the man pressed.

An interesting question. This week, the answer was the futon of a grad student renting out his studio while he was on a month-long research trip. It was a good deal, too. “Uh, up by twenty-second, couple blocks east,” Stiles answered. It was a fair distance to walk, probably 40 minutes in his current state. “Why? Where do you live?”

The man rolled his eyes, not amused by Stiles’s turn-around. “Twenty-second,” he muttered, finally releasing his chin to turn and look at the nearest street sign. “Were you planning on playing Frogger the whole way there?” he asked, lips pressed into a thin line.

For someone who had lived through as much misfortune as Stiles, he did have a tendency to trust his fate to the universe. So far, he’d lived. Today, the universe was making a peace offering, it seemed.

“Get in,” the man growled at him, jerking his head toward the car. “I’m taking you home. Get in the car.” He placed a hand on Stiles’s back, between his shoulder blades, and pushed him in the right direction. Stiles stumbled slightly, but made his way without assistance.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“Stiles,” he answered without hesitation, sliding into the passenger seat. “What about you?” Then immediately got distracted, looking around himself. “Dude, this is a _really_ nice car.” Stiles didn’t even have a license, hadn’t been in school for driver’s ed, but he’d seen every movie in the _Fast and the Furious_ series. That pretty much made him a car expert, right?

“My name is Peter. Or Professor Hale,” the man said, leaning across Stiles to do his buckle for him. “Are you a student here?” He shifted into gear and spared a glance at Stiles. “Try not to puke.”

Stiles laughed at Peter’s question. “Uh, I’m not exactly the college type,” he answered. He was also too young to be in college, but the dear professor didn’t need to know that. Stiles leaned against the door, looking out the window and directing the man toward the duplex he’d been staying in. He couldn’t remember the name of the cross-street.

“Yeah, right up here,” he directed, and the car slowed. “It’s...” He saw the brick building, but he also saw something that made his eyes go wide. “Fuck, is it Monday?” Stiles dropped down in his seat rather dramatically so he could only just peer above the edge of the window. The grad student’s car was parked out front, and the front door was open. “Shit, it’s him. Keep driving,” he demanded, waving frantically ahead.

“Him? Who’s him?” The car sped back up. Peter looked down at him and lifted an eyebrow curiously. “Are you avoiding somebody?”

Stiles stayed low, peeking out the window until they were well past the apartment. “The dude whose apartment it is,” he explained, turning to look out the back window, half expecting to see squad cars whipping around the corner. Probably not, though. It could take an hour to get an officer to the site of a completed robbery.

“I rented it from him while he was out of town. Kinda sold a bunch of his shit, though.” He cringed, as if the whole thing had been an unavoidable accident. He sighed. “Fuck. Alright, just drop me off wherever. I guess I’ll figure something out.”

“Drop you off wherever so you can wander back into traffic?” Peter supposed dryly.

“Hey, I think I might be coming down,” Stiles lied, words still slightly slurred.

Peter shook his head, and the car took a left at the next stop sign, toward a nicer area of town. After a moment, he asked. “Why would you do that? Why sell his things?”

Stiles sat up straighter, groaned, and cracked his neck. There was a bite mark low at the nape of his neck. “I mean, why wouldn’t I?” he answered. “I paid like five hundred to rent the room for the month. Had to make it up somehow.” He’d more than made up for it. The TV, the bluetooth speaker, Playstation, and video games had gone for $900. It just sucked that the guy had brought his computer on the trip with him. “And before you go feeling sorry for him, I found the dude on Craigslist. People on Craigslist should expect to get ripped off,” he insisted.

“I suppose there is a risk one takes when inviting a stranger into their home,” Peter said slowly. He wrinkled his nose and the passenger window rolled down. “Although, speaking as someone about to take such a risk, you do have the option to _not._” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Stiles, I’m bringing you to my home. You can eat, shower, and sleep.” He looked over, sharp blue eyes boring into him with that same ferocious intensity, though his expression hardly shifted. “If you steal from me, you will be punished,” he said.

Stiles frowned as Peter spoke, still feeling loose and easy from whatever the frat boys had given him. Still, he had enough life experience to be cautious of a strange man taking him home. “Punished?” he echoed. He was sure the man meant legal punishment. Or, hell, maybe he was even threatening Stiles to play it tough. But Stiles decided to be cute and turn it around on the man. “Hell, that almost sounds hot, Professor,” he teased with a cheeky grin. “How much I gotta steal to get tied up?”

Peter didn’t take his eyes off the road, hands tightening slightly on the steering wheel. “For that, you’d need to be a really good boy,” he breathed.

It wasn’t the sputtering indignation Stiles had been hoping for. His lip curled at the man’s answer, the grin melting into a slightly irritated, bored expression. “Well, no chance of that,” he declared, slumping back against the door and sighing. “Your loss, though.” Stiles stretched out long in his seat, running a hand over his stomach, bared through the mesh of his shirt. “I’m the best cocksucker in Beacon County.” He had no way of knowing if that was true or not, but neither did anyone else. It was a safe boast, in his book.

It won him a raised eyebrow and a sideways glance. “Is that so?” Peter hummed disinterestedly.

“Anyway, I’m not gonna rip you off. You’re being nice and shit.”

“Do you have a change of clothes in your backpack?” Peter asked. “You reek of weed and cigarettes.”

Stiles nudged his backpack with his foot. “Yeah, that’s all my stuff in there,” he said, then leaned forward to unzip it. He pulled out a shirt sleeve and sniffed. “I think they’re clean,” he said carelessly. He zipped the bag back up and pulled his hoodie to his nose as well, giving that a sniff. Peter was right about the smell. “Dude, I don’t even remember smoking weed,” he laughed.

“You don’t remember smoking weed, you have no idea what drugs you’re on,” he began to list off, the lecture picking back up full steam. “Did you let one of them chew on your neck or were you unaware of that happening, too?”

God, if he was going to get scolded, Stiles might just take off. Not that he had anywhere to go or was sober enough to decide on a place to go. Fuck. He rolled his eyes and touched he neck until he felt the twinge of a bruise. “Oh, yeah.” He laughed. Then a slow smile spread across his lips and he turned to watch Peter’s expression. “Well, I mean, I don’t remember that _specifically_, but I don’t charge for that, so it doesn’t matter. I remember what I charge for.” If Peter was going to give him the big concerned grown-up act, he might as well enjoy flaunting his misdeeds.

Any trace of humor left Peter’s face in an instant, and he turned to look at Stiles. “What exactly did you charge for last night?” he asked.

Stiles smirked, pleased to have finally ruffled the professor. “Five hundred up front for dancing and some lap dances – birthday party, but they never stop at that. Plus tips, but frat boys don’t tip too good. Made an extra grand off the rest of the night at least. Easy money. Dudes like that never last long.”

Peter didn’t answer, and they pulled into a driveway. Stiles finally looked around at where they were. It was a really nice neighborhood with large houses spaced decently far apart, tidy lawns and rows of flowers in front of each. The house they’d pulled up to was fairly new construction, farmhouse style painted white with dark green trim.

As he was distracted looking around, Peter grabbed his backpack from in front of his feet.

“Hey!” Stiles protested, snatching for it, but Peter had already gotten out of the car and started for the front door. Stiles fumbled out of his seatbelt, then practically fell out of the car in his haste to chase after the man. “Grabby much? Jesus,” he complained, though the thrum of panic he felt went deeper than his whiny tone betrayed. His whole life was in that backpack. The guy probably knew it, too.

The house had a brightly lit entryway open to the living room on the left, with stairs directly ahead from the front door. A kitchen was visible beyond the stairs, a dining room through an archway to his right. The décor looked decidedly quaint in a way that didn’t match the impression Peter gave off, personality-wise. “Shoes off,” Peter told him, having already toed his own off neatly under the coat hook. He headed up the stairs.

Stiles hesitated in the doorway, eyes fixed on his backpack, still clutched in Peter’s hand. He kicked his shoes off in a hasty heap by the door, then followed, helpless to do anything else. Suddenly, this felt a little less safe than it had a moment ago. Maybe that was the drugs subsiding.

There were five doors in the upstairs hallway, one narrow and obviously a closet. The one closest to the stairs was open, revealing an office with bookshelves lining the back wall. Across from that, what looked like a guest room. Closet, then bathroom. Peter went into the room at the end of the hall, setting his backpack down inside the doorway as he turned to rummage in the dresser.

Here, too, the furniture gave off an old fashioned vibe. Dark wood, a four poster bed with deep blue fabric draped around the top. The curtains, which looked to Stiles like they were moving but probably weren’t, framed the large wall of windows in heavy, stern fabric that ended precisely at the floor. A stiff, wine red chaise lounge sat purposelessly on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. Just there for decoration. Stiles wondered if anyone had ever even sat on it.

He lingered in the doorway to the bedroom, feeling like it took too long and no time at all before Peter turned back toward him, holding out a thin stack of neatly folded clothing: just a white undershirt and boxers. “Change and bring me those,” Peter instructed, “Including the ones in your backpack.” Once they were in Stiles’s hands, Peter loosened his tie and moved around him, back down the hall.

Stiles looked down at the clothes the man had given him. Basically just underwear. Did he expect Stiles to walk around half-dressed and entertain him or something? Did he want to fuck Stiles? “Okay, but hold the fuck up,” he started to say, but when he turned around, Stiles realized the man was already back down the stairs. Man, what was he on? He apparently had the reaction time of a tree.

Standing in the room, he looked down at his backpack and tried to think about the worst thing that could happen if he ran, versus playing along. This guy could be a serial killer, but that didn’t necessarily give him better odds one way or the other. And he really could use a laundry day.

With a deep breath, he stripped down and put on the boxers and t-shirt, then stared at his backpack again. He didn’t want to be separated from the money now that he’d been stupid and told Peter he had it. And he was really flush with cash. Any lighter, and he might have just put it all in a Ziploc bag and shoved it up his ass, but it was a fat wad with a lot of tens. No way he’d be walking around normal with that up his ass. Instead, he slung his backpack over his shoulder, all the clothes inside, and carried it out. He’d just have to keep an eye on it.

Stiles found Peter in the kitchen, typing on a slim laptop on the island counter. There was a scotch glass beside it, a finger of honey-colored liquid in it with a large block of ice. His blazer had been abandoned, leaving his well-muscled arms bare.

“I got ‘em,” Stiles announced, hefting the bag on his shoulder in demonstration. “Where’s the washer?”

Peter looked up, and his eyes definitely flicked over Stiles before settling on the bag. He walked over, a hand extended. “Just give them to me. At worst, you’ll break the machine. At best, you’ll do the wash in slow-motion.” He sounded vaguely amused.

Stiles hesitated, weighing his options. He swung the bag off his shoulder and unzipped the top compartment, producing a cell phone and a wad of cash in a plastic bag. “I’m holding onto this,” he said firmly, then passed over the bag of clothes. It wasn’t much – just five changes of socks and underwear, a few shirts, a second pair of jeans, a slightly heavier jacket. If he needed to, he’d run out of here in underwear, as long as he had cash to get himself back on his feet.

Cocking an eyebrow, Peter asked, “Are you really so afraid I’ll take your money? Does it look like I need it?” He shook his head and took the bag, heading down another hallway, presumably toward the laundry room.

Standing in the kitchen awkwardly, phone and money cradled in his hands, Stiles looked around the kitchen in a dull sort of haze. It did sound a little silly to be called out for his paranoia, but it wasn’t the being robbed part that scared him. It was that, if Peter took his money and phone, Stiles wouldn’t be able to go anywhere or do anything until he gave it back. He needed the phone to make money, needed the money to keep the phone running.

Peter came back into the kitchen, opened the fridge, then motioned toward the kitchen island, which had a row of bar stools along one side. “Sit.” He fished in a cupboard, then turned around with a bottle of water and a bottle of Tylenol in his hands. “Your head will hurt regardless, but these will take the edge off,” he explained.

Stiles sat on one of the bar stools and watched as Peter deposited two pills into his hand, then slid them across the counter with the water bottle. Stiles set his valuables on the counter and took the pills.

“Are you too high to eat?” Peter asked.

“No such thing as too anything to eat,” Stiles insisted quickly. “I mean, except like coke and adderall and shit, but I didn’t do any of that.” He would have been able to tell. Stiles propped his chin on his hands and watched Peter curiously as he went back to the fridge to fetch a tupperware. “So why the fuck are you doing all of this again?” he asked.

Peter slid the leftovers onto a plate. Roast beef with potatoes and veggies. It was better food than Stiles had laid eyes on in a while. “Watch your mouth,” Peter said, waggling a fork above his shoulder without looking up. The food went into the microwave. He wiped the counter, put the tupperware in the dishwasher, then turned back toward Stiles with a thoughtful expression.

“You’re a skinny teenager with no home, high on god-knows-what, with his entire life stuffed into a backpack,” he said. Harsh, but fair.

“You feel sorry for me,” Stiles summed up, not sounding particularly bothered by it. There were worse reasons for a guy to do something like this.

Peter didn’t answer, and a moment later, the microwave beeped. He set the plate and a fork in front of Stiles, who eyed it with more desperation than he’d intended to. He’d had some chips and stuff at the party last night, but his last real meal had been at least twenty-four hours prior. Digging in immediately, he shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“Tell me what you did at that party to earn all that money,” Peter demanded, tone leaving no room for disagreement and not betraying his motives either.

Stiles spoke with his mouth full. “I mean, what do you think?” he said carelessly. “I sucked some of ‘em off and got fucked.” He shrugged a shoulder.

Peter leaned forward on the counter, pushing his laptop closed without looking at it. “No, Stiles, I want you to tell me _exactly_ what you did.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Stiles slowed his monstrous pace of eating for just a moment. “What, like, details?” he asked. He huffed a laugh and shoved some vegetables into his mouth. “Christ, that’s kinda skeezy, you know that? I kinda feel like I should charge for telling you.” A lot of men came to Stiles expecting him to be nonjudgmental about their kinks and requests. Those men were generally disappointed. “Whatever, though. I did the strip show, gave some lap dances, then we started drinking and partying. A couple guys wanted blow jobs…” Stiles looked up, slurping a green bean between his lips and crunching down on it. “Is that the kind of stuff you wanna know?” He’d given Peter the impression earlier that he remembered all of the sex perfectly. That wasn’t exactly true.

“You said they fucked you,” Peter reminded him. “Do you remember how many? Were you safe?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just when Stiles thought the guy was perving on him, it was more of the concerned citizen act. “Yeah, I know how to use a fucking condom,” he snapped, ignoring that the lesson had been re-learned just six months ago.

Peter pushed away from the counter to refill his glass with an expensive-looking scotch while Stiles did a mental tally in his head. “Let’s see… three hundred in blow jobs – that’s six. Then seven hundred – three of them wanted to tag team me. You know, like you see in pornos? And that was it.” At least, he was pretty sure that was it.

After a quiet moment, sipping his whiskey, Peter said, “Why do you do this? Why prostitution? Why not get a job flipping burgers like the rest of the kids your age?” Then he paused, frowning, and set his glass down. “If you’re not a student, how old are you?”

Stiles got a lot of wild guesses on his age. He was scrawny, underfed, and he had a bit of a baby face still. But the way he talked, the way he carried himself, the careless confidence, it tended to fool people toward the upper ranges.

There were several reasons he couldn’t go work a fryer at McDonald’s. For one, he was nowhere near responsible enough to show up reliably. For another, it wouldn’t pay enough to live off. Being homeless was expensive as fuck. Mostly, though, it was that pesky runaway status.

Stiles set down his fork, the plate as clean as it would get without him licking it, and leaned back far enough on the bar stool that he had to grip the counter to keep himself steady. The look on his face was all challenge, daring Peter to do anything about the answer he would give. “Seventeen. Can’t get a real job when you’re my age and don’t belong to anyone.” By which he meant he was supposed to belong to the state, but he wasn’t having any of that. “Don’t think I’ll get a job next year, though. Maybe I’ll try porn, since I’ll be legal. I know a guy that could hook me up.”

Peter sighed, his jaw tensing, but he didn’t betray his reaction beyond that. “Do you know what they do to pretty boys like you in that industry?” he asked.

“You think I’m pretty,” Stiles teased, grinning.

Peter reached across the counter to grab the empty plate. He rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher before turning back to Stiles. “You should shower and get some sleep.”

Stiles slid off his stool and cracked his neck. “Hot shower? Don’t gotta twist my arm. That apartment had sucky water pressure.”

“Go,” Peter urged. “Towels are under the sink. Shower and use whatever soaps you want.”

Stiles got halfway up the stairs, then leaned over the banister to look into the kitchen. “You’re not gonna want to watch, are you? Y’know, since I’m so pretty?”

Peter walked toward him, stopping in the hallway alongside the staircase so he was directly below Stiles. He looked up at him, hands in his pockets. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and the words made Stiles’s heart thump a little faster in his chest. “But you’re reckless.” Peter went back into the kitchen.

Stiles gaped after him, the rejection stinging more than it probably should have. “I wouldn’t even charge you!” he called after him petulantly. When he got no response, he rolled his eyes and continued upstairs. “Your loss,” he muttered under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: drug use, prostitution, references to drugged sex


	2. Exploration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tries to figure out what the hell Peter wants from him.

Stiles took his time in the shower, always did when there was enough hot water to get away with it. He felt like he was sobering up finally. When he finally stepped out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, he started toward the stairs before he heard a sound behind him, in Peter’s bedroom.

The man was stepping out of his slacks when Stiles walked up to the open door, a firm, fit ass hidden by nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. Stiles leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin. “Hey, Professor,” he purred, leering at the sight in front of him.

When Peter straightened up, it was to reveal a flat, not overly ripped abdomen, brown hair trailing from his chest down to the waistband of his underwear. “Better?” he asked.

“Much better,” Stiles agreed, obviously not thinking about the same thing as Peter just then.

Peter pulled on a pair of sweats, then looked Stiles over slowly, eyes tracing the constellations of freckles and moles across his skin. There were a few more hickies visible now, mostly faint. There was a particularly dark bite mark on his back, though.

“You know,” Stiles told him, “I gotta be honest. You’re kinda my type.”

“Your type?” Peter echoed, sounding amused. He ran a hand through his hair and took a step toward Stiles. “I’m old enough to be your father. Don’t you see an issue with that?”

Stiles shifted out of the doorway, backing himself against the bedroom wall as Peter advanced, intentionally cornering himself for the man. “Nah, it’s hot,” he insisted. “I mean, it’s not like you’d have a problem fucking someone young enough to be your son, right?” He trailed a hand over his own chest to his stomach, teasing. “Besides, my dad’s not here. Maybe I need someone to take care of me.”

Peter’s eyes followed the trail of his hand, but he laughed. “You have some serious daddy issues, Stiles,” he observed, reaching out to push Stiles’s damp hair back off his face.

“You have no idea,” Stiles agreed with a wicked smile.

“You want me to take care of you?” Peter asked, fingers curling in the dark locks, his eyes locked onto Stiles’s, testing him.

Stiles tipped his head back, baring his throat and all but batting his eyes trying to look as alluring as possible. “Oh, yeah, Professor,” he agreed playfully. “You said it yourself, y’know. I’m in no condition to be taking care of myself.” At least, he’d probably said something like that.

“No, you’re absolutely not,” Peter said. He hummed, trailing his fingers down Stiles’s throat and over his jagged collarbone. “I’m not sure you could handle me, boy,” he breathed, leaning in so Stiles could smell the scotch on his breath. “I want you to do exactly as I say. Can you do that?” he asked.

Stiles sucked in a breath. He was sobering up, but his brain still felt a bit soft around the edges. Licking his lips, he nodded. “Mmmyeah, I can do that,” he murmured. He assumed whatever instructions he was getting would be purely sexual in nature. In bed, he could be pretty damn obedient. He had his limits, sure, but those were easily coaxed around. Outside of sex, though, he was as disobedient and rebellious as they came. “Let me guess,” he purred sweetly. “Step one, drop the towel? Or do I get on my knees first?”

Peter shook his head. “No. No, what I want...” He stepped back, cupping a hand around the back of Stiles’s skull and pulling him away from the wall. Back toward the door. “I want you to go to the bedroom at the end of the hall. I want you to put on the clothes I laid out in there and I want you to get into bed.” He paused and ducked his head just slightly so he was eye-to-eye with Stiles. “Then I want you to touch yourself.” His voice was low, demanding, and he smirked as he released the boy.

Stiles’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as the man explained the instructions. The last bit was possibly interesting if Peter came to join in, but he couldn’t tell if that’s how it had been intended. “Did you just tell me to go jerk off and leave you alone?” he asked with a laugh. Even if he didn’t like rejection, he could appreciate the humor if that’s what the man had meant. Stiles chewed on his lower lip and smirked at the man. “Alright. Whatever you say, Professor.”

He slid around the man and out the door, holding the towel at his hip. He did as he was told, glancing over his shoulder periodically, hoping to see Peter following him. He didn’t. Stiles dropped the towel and put the clothes on. Hey, maybe seeing someone else wear his clothes did it for Peter. He pushed the quilt and top sheet aside, lying exposed on the bottom sheet, and slipped a hand into the boxers, wrapping it around his cock. He sighed and shut his eyes.

A few moments later, he heard a voice at the doorway. “What a sight,” Peter said.

Eyes snapping open, Stiles looked over to where the man was leaning on the door frame, much like Stiles had been just a few minutes earlier. Stiles pushed his shirt up, exposing his stomach and groaning quietly as he rocked up into his hand.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” Peter demanded.

It was a tough question, honestly. Stiles generally wasn’t asked what he wanted. Instead, he opted for what he figured the man would want to hear: “First I’d wanna see what you’re packing, see if I could take it all in my mouth. Choke on it. Then I’d want you to hold me down and fuck me ‘til I scream.” It wasn’t very creative, but most guys didn’t care. He pushed the waistband of the boxers down, pulling his cock out over the top.

“Do you like it rough?” Peter asked.

Stiles nodded quickly in response. Fuck yes he liked it rough. Most of his sexual experience at this point was with johns, and hard and fast was vastly superior to a guy who wanted to drag things out.

“I would fuck you slowly,” Peter told him, and something in his tone told Stiles he might not mind it if it was Peter doing it. “I’d tie your hands behind your back, push your face in the sheets and take my time pulling you apart piece by piece.”

Whining softly at his words, Stiles wriggled his boxers lower on his legs and kicked them off so he could spread his legs. “Slow, huh?” he murmured. He watched as one of Peter’s hands dropped down to palm at the growing bulge in his sweats.

“Did you get off when those boys fucked you?” the man asked.

Stiles sucked two fingers into his mouth, then brought them down between his legs, rubbing them over his hole. “Just once,” he said. “They weren’t too good, but I jerked off while they were fucking me.” It wasn’t exactly true, but it was what he thought Peter wanted to hear.

“I’d fuck you slowly,” Peter said again. "I don’t think anybody has ever taken the time to fuck you until you’re nothing but a trembling mess of sweat and come. Unable to speak or think.” He took a couple of steps into the room. “Finger yourself,” he urged.

Groaning, Stiles pressed a fingertip inside himself, teasing for a moment before he pressed it inside to the first knuckle. “This what does it for you, Professor?” he asked. He planted his feet apart on the bed, knees up and spread to put on a show as the second finger slid in beside the first. He was still loose from last night, relaxed from whatever he’d taken. “Watching pretty boys jerk it? Or are you gonna want to get in on the action at some point?” It was a goading remark, a little confrontational, but Stiles didn’t think much of it, just curled his fingers, gasped, and squeezed the base of his dick to balance out the sensation.

Peter had moved to the end of the bed, watching Stiles’s fingers disappear into himself. “I want to see if you can follow orders,” he said, licking his lips. “Now shut up and put on a fucking show.” The last came out a growl.

Following orders. Stiles might have raised an eyebrow at such a request if he hadn’t been so busy trying to get laid. Pushy, bossy clients could be some of the more dangerous ones. But Peter wasn’t a client. This was just some innocent fun, right?

A moment later, eyes still fixed on Stiles’s hole, Peter asked, “Could you make yourself come without touching your cock? Think you could do that for me?”

Licking his lips, Stiles stared up at the man and let go of his cock, rocking his hips down onto his fingers with a whine. He’d come untouched a few times, but never like this. He hesitated, then shook his head. The possibility of pissing the man off by saying no was balanced out by the possibility that he’d get more than his own hands out of this interaction. “Not just with my fingers,” he said quietly. “I can’t reach well enough.” The angle wasn’t quite right. He could brush his fingers over his prostate, but he had to curl his wrist to do it, and he couldn’t push into it properly.

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Peter remarked dryly, a smirk on his lips. He buckled a moment later, though, moving forward and setting a knee on the end of the bed. He grabbed Stiles’s wrist and pulled his hand away. “Arms above your head. Keep them there or I stop,” he warned, spreading the boy’s legs, rough fingers sliding across the skin of his thighs. Stiles stretched his arms over his head obediently, grabbing the top edge of the mattress.

Peter sucked two fingers into his mouth, then pushed them into the boy without hesitation, curling them expertly. His fingers were thicker and longer than Stiles’s, and he knew just how to use them. Stiles moaned happily, wriggling down onto them as Peter fingered him for a few moments.

Then they stilled. Stiles whined. “You want to come? Work for it,” he ordered.

Stiles stared down at him, brows drawing together. He planted his feet more firmly, staring at the man as he lifted his hips and dropped them back down, gasping. His fingers were curled just right, so all Stiles had to do was lift and lower his hips, fucking himself down onto them. It wasn’t going to be easy, physically, but if he wanted to get off, this was the game, apparently. He could play. He started a slow pace, adjusting the angle until he found one that made his eyes roll back in his head. A lift-drop-roll sort of pace. “Mmmmfuck yes,” he mumbled.

“Look at you,” Peter breathed. “Such a good boy.” One of his hands gripped Stiles’s hip to push his hips down harder. Stiles cried out. He was breathing heavily, thighs straining at the odd and prolonged exertion. The ‘good boy’ comment bristled on his nerves slightly, but he was distracted enough that the thought was there and gone in a second.

The stimulation itself was accurate, but not anything spectacular. That wasn’t what had him panting and turned on and ready to come, though. It was the whole dynamic, the bossiness and the way Peter was staring at him, the command in his voice. “Fuck – fuck!” he gasped. He was so close, but his body was nearing its breaking point. “God, you better fuck me next time,” he panted. He heard Peter laugh at that. “My fucking – nng – fucking legs are gonna be – ah!” His breath caught in his throat, and suddenly he was coming onto his stomach, toes curling in the sheets and back bowing so he was pressed down desperately against Peter’s fingers, clenched around them.

Peter pulled his fingers from Stiles and wiped them on the bed sheets as he stood up. He was still hard in his sweats. Stiles lay there, trembling and covered in his own come, face flushed and legs spread. He was expecting to suck Peter’s cock. At the very least, he expected the man to jerk off onto him.

Peter headed back for the door. “Sleep well, Stiles. Breakfast is at eight.”

Stiles stared after him, mouth agape in something very much like outrage. “Eight,” he echoed, not sure wheat else to say. That was so damn early. Then again, the clock on the nightstand said it was three in the afternoon. And he was definitely going to crash immediately. He’d probably be up before that on his own.

Once the man was out the door, Stiles huffed. “What the fuck,” he muttered to himself. He pulled his shirt off, wiped his stomach with it, then tossed it over the side of the bed. Tugging the blankets over his naked body, he curled up and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: sex under the influence


	3. Employment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes an offer.

As he had expected, Stiles was up way before eight. He got a good fourteen hours in, then jerked awake in the throes of a silent nightmare just after five. He felt off, wrong. Hungover but with a weird and unsettling twist, like he was on the verge of a panic attack but never actually crossing into it. His heart beat loud and jittery, his palms sweaty. Instead of getting up and facing his strange host in this state, Stiles lay in bed, trying to get himself through it.

He found his phone where he’d left it on the nightstand, but it was almost dead. He could hear Peter moving around the house, so he crept quietly, digging the charger out of his backpack and plugging the phone in. Damn, he wished he’d gotten the Wi-Fi password last night. There was no data left on his card. He settled on some offline games, playing them until the panic passed.

A little more than an hour later, he put on the boxers he’d abandoned at the foot of the bed and poked his head out of the bedroom door. He heard movement downstairs. The office door, which had been open when he came in the night before, had been closed. The master bedroom, too. Stiles walked across to the bathroom, peed, splashed some water on his face, then made his way downstairs.

He followed the smell of cooked bacon until he found Peter in the kitchen in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his back to Stiles and attention on the stove. “Good morning,” he said without looking up. Peter made a movement, and Stiles saw he was flipping a pancake. “Plates are in that cupboard.” He pointed toward a cupboard, then to the drawer below it. “Cutlery there. Set the table.”

It took Stiles a couple of seconds to catch up to his requests before he was moving forward to get the plates and silverware.

“How did you sleep?” Peter asked.

“I totally passed out,” Stiles said. He set the dishes on the kitchen table on the other side of the room. It was beside a sliding glass door that looked out onto a modest deck with a grill and some potted plants. Rubbing a hand over his face, he added, “I’m crashing kinda weird off whatever I took. Gotta start sticking to weed.”

“Or you could quit using drugs completely,” Peter said wryly.

Giving a snort of derision, Stiles deadpanned, “Yeah, you try selling ass sober.” Stiles walked back toward Peter, peering over his shoulder as he slid a pancake from the pan onto the stack waiting beside the stove. He poured the last of the batter into the pan. “I fucking love pancakes,” he said. His mouth was practically watering at the smell of food. He’d slept so long, he was fucking starving.

“There’s bacon, too.” He tapped the microwave, sitting on the counter on the other side of the stove, with the spatula. “Do you know how to cook?”

“Uh, I can make, like, pasta and stuff? Nothing fancy, though.” He rarely had a kitchen to work in, but when he did, pasta was the quickest and cheapest way to keep himself full.

Peter turned toward him suddenly and cupped Stiles’s chin in his palm, tilting his head and examining his throat. “You shouldn’t let college boys chew on you,” he said.

Stiles tensed when Peter touched his chin, but didn’t pull away. That annoying edge of tension from the hangover spiked. Right, the hickies. As soon as Peter let him go, Stiles retreated back to the table, sitting down so he could face the man. “Kind of the least of my worries with drunk college boys,” he reminded the professor.

Peter flipped the last pancake and hummed thoughtfully. After a moment, that went onto a plate, too. He got the plate of bacon from the microwave and somehow juggled two plates, a butter dish, and a bottle of syrup without looking even the slightest bit uneasy. He set the food out in front of Stiles, then went back to fetch a mug of coffee, which he held onto, and a glass of orange juice, which he passed to his guest. “What are you going to do when you leave here?” he asked.

Stiles licked his lips, then reached out and pulled a few pancakes and slices of bacon onto his plate, trying not to look too desperate. Talking about where he’d be going only made him want to fill his stomach more, though. “Probably crash at a motel for a couple days until I find another setup like I had before,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “I got enough money to keep me on my feet.”

He was better off lately than he’d been in a while. When he was younger, it had been forty dollar blowjobs sold in an alley, taking bad jobs out of desperation, sleeping outside when it was nice enough. Since he started running scams and getting jobs online, things had gotten more stable and a lot more lucrative. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked for him.

Peter waited for Stiles to take his food before filling his own plate, meticulously buttering between each pancake. “A motel,” he repeated, making the word sound sour. “Until you can find another unsuspecting student to rob?” He cocked an eyebrow. Stiles didn’t have anything to say to that, so they ate in silence for a moment.

Finally, Peter said, “You could stay here.”

Stiles paused with a hunk of pancake nearly in his mouth. He actually set his fork down so he could properly stare at Peter in disbelief. “Stay here?” Stiles repeated, as if worried he’d misheard. “You’re not, y’know, worried I’d just rob you, too?” He laughed and shook his head, picking his fork back up and shoveling the pancake into his face. “Or are you really that into lecturing me about safe sex and not whoring myself out to frat boys?” he asked, mouth full. “Or maybe you just want more of what happened last night. Because we could do that.” He waggled his eyebrows at Peter, then swallowed and bit a piece of bacon in half. “But seriously, why would you do that?”

Peter set down his own fork and leaned both elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together in front of his chin. “You need somewhere to stay,” he said. “You need structure and _rules_. You need somebody to take care of you.” Any innuendo Stiles had read into those words last night had vanished. “If you’re not interested, by all means, you know where the front door is. I don’t do favors for people who don’t appreciate them.” He waved a careless hand toward the door, then went back to his breakfast.

The offer made Stiles wary, but it was also tempting as hell. He wasn’t bouncing around from place to place because it was fun, after all. And maybe he’d be able to save some money while he was here. He’d started planning for turning eighteen, in vague notions at least. He’d be able to keep his money in a bank, get an apartment. It wouldn’t be much, but he could get himself steady. Motels were expensive as hell. “Okay, so you take care of me. You give me… structure,” he agreed slowly, cautious. “What do I gotta do?” If he’d learned one thing, it was that nothing came free.

Leaning back in his chair, Peter smiled at him. “You follow my rules,” he said. “I’m a very particular man, Stiles. If you hadn’t noticed.” No kidding. Stiles figured he could deal with that as long as it was mostly sexual in nature, though. Maybe that could work.

Then Peter added, “I won’t be living with a drug addicted prostitute either.”

Stiles’s face fell all at once. Well, there went that idea. Stiles sighed and shoved some bacon in his mouth. “I’m not a fucking addict,” he muttered. “But I gotta work. Gotta save up. I don’t run without a backup plan.” He may have seemed like the world’s most irresponsible, impulsive street scum, but Stiles was smart. He wouldn’t have survived this long otherwise. “I’m turning eighteen next year. I’m getting an apartment.”

Peter chewed on some pancake slowly, thoughtfully. “What if you were to work for me?”

Stiles snorted. “What, you want to have your own personal, private hooker? Sounds expensive.”

Rolling his eyes, Peter pushed his plate away. “Not like that. I need some help around the house. Cleaning, cooking, that sort of thing. I’ll pay for your food and phone, plus an allowance you could use for savings. I suspect you would be saving more that way than the way you’ve been doing things.”

Looking suspicious and more than a little baffled, Stiles slowly asked, “You would… pay me to live here?” It sounded too good to be true. That ever-persistent survival instinct was wriggling in his gut, urging him to look for the catch, wait for the other shoe to drop. Did Peter just want to fuck him? Maybe. And Stiles supposed that, as long as he kept an eye on his own cash, the worst that could happen was that he had to take off and ended up back where he started.

“Again, I have rules,” Peter reminded him.

“What kind of rules?” Stiles asked, wary.

Peter counted them off on his fingers. “My bedroom is off limits unless you’re invited in. Same goes for my office. You tell nobody that you’re living with me – I have an image to maintain. No drinking or drugs unless I say otherwise.” He lowered the hand he was counting off on. “All I require is that you can follow instructions. If I tell you to do something, you do it.” He shrugged a shoulder.

Stiles leaned an elbow on the table, chin cradled in his hand as he processed the information. This could be good. Hell, this could be really good. A bit on the lame side as far as the drinking and drugs went, but one year of putting his nose down and saving up? When he turned eighteen, he could put the money down on an apartment, go back to hooking or get into porn, whatever would pay. And if the guy was a freak, he could always leave.

“What about me?” Stiles asked after a long moment’s thought. “Do I get to make any rules?”

Peter cocked an eyebrow, almost looking impressed at the suggestion. “What do you have in mind?”

Stoking his confidence, Stiles sat up straight. He wanted to sound sure of himself when he said this, not like some whimpering victim-to-be. “If I decide I wanna go, you have to let me go,” he told Peter firmly. “No, like, holding shit over my head so I have to stay. My cash, my phone, it’s mine, and I can take off with it whenever I want.”

It was all the defense he’d ever had for himself – running – and Stiles wasn’t about to give it up.

For a moment, Peter said nothing, mulling it over. Finally, he nodded. “Your phone. Your money. It’s all yours and, yes, of course you can leave if you feel the need. I won’t stop you.” He leaned forward, reaching around the table to grab the side of Stiles’s chair, hauling him closer. “But I can assure you, you won’t want to leave.” He grinned, a wicked expression, and carded a hand through Stiles’s hair.

Stiles couldn’t help but feel like he was playing a game he didn’t know the rules to. He’d gotten the answer he wanted, but he couldn’t tell if it had been much of a concession for the man. More importantly, he couldn’t decide if it would be more or less comforting if it _had_ been a big concession.

Peter stood and carried his own dishes to the sink. “Finish eating, then clean the table,” he said. Once he’d rinsed his dishes and put them in the dishwasher, he opened the laptop again, clicking through.

“What kind of professor are you anyway?” Stiles asked, mouth full of pancake again.

“Psychology,” Peter answered breezily.

Hoo boy, he was going to have a field day with Stiles. He briefly reconsidered taking off now and cutting his losses, but didn’t so much as slow his chewing to do it. “Shouldn’t you be, like, teaching a class or something?” Stiles pressed.

“I asked a TA to cover for me today.” He flashed Stiles a toothy grin. “I wasn’t about to leave a thief unattended in my house, after all.”

Once he finished eating, Stiles started clearing the table as he’d been instructed, Peter offering perfunctory guidance. Butter stays on the counter. Get the sponge from the sink, wipe the table. Stiles dropped the sponge back where he’d found it, then turned, chewing on his lip. “So this is like a sex thing, right?” he asked.

Peter looked amused, cocking his head at Stiles and taking a step closer. “Do you want it to be a sex thing?” He didn’t stop until he was right in front of Stiles, those sharp eyes casting over his face with an analytical thoroughness.

Stiles cleared his throat, feeling unsteady. He took a half step back until his butt hit the edge of the counter. It had worked well on Peter yesterday – cornering himself like prey, making the man feel all the more like the lion. “I mean, no drinking, no drugs… I’d get pretty bored if it wasn’t,” he murmured. He was trying for teasing, flirtatious, but this whole morning had him off-balance. He came across as sheepish instead.

Peter closed the rest of the distance, cupping Stiles’s jaw in his hand and brushing his thumb over Stiles’s lower lip so it pulled down slightly. “I’m not sure you want it bad enough yet,” Peter purred at him. “Why don’t you tell me why you think you deserve to be fucked?” The hand on his jaw tipped Stiles’s head back just a bit, baring his throat.

Jesus, Stiles had never had to work so hard to get laid in his life. The attention did it for him, though, his heart fluttering in a way that wasn’t all due to the hangover. He thought for a moment, then looked Peter in the eye, trying to project confidence. “Well, if I’m gonna be living here, maybe it should be a welcome home present,” he said, lips breaking into a sly smile.

It won him a laugh from Peter, surprised sounding. Stiles got the sense that it wasn’t easy to surprise a man like Peter, so he preened a bit at the sound. “A welcome home present,” Peter repeated, then dropped his hand and brought the other up so they gripped the counter on either side of Stiles, caging him in. “It’s been a long time since I fucked a boy,” he admitted, dragging his gaze down the bare expanse of Stiles’s torso, then back up to his eyes. “I want to hear you beg for it,” he breathed, rocking his hips forward into Stiles’s. “Tell me why you want me to fuck you so badly.”

Between the proximity and the way Peter was looking at him, Stiles had thought for sure he had this in the bag. Apparently Peter needed more persuasion still. Thankfully, however, telling men how badly he wanted their big, fat cocks inside of him was one of Stiles’s primary job skills. He leaned forward into Peter’s space, running his hands over the man’s shoulders lightly.

“Please, Professor,” he whined, looking down and licking his lips. The change in his tone was immediate and obvious as he took on this well-practiced role. Even his posture changed, from slouchy and careless to meek and submissive. “I didn’t even get to see it last night. You were teasing me.”

“Teasing you?” Peter echoed. “You got more than you deserved last night.”

Stiles pressed on: “I told you those college boys didn’t fuck me good. I need a real man. Someone that can handle me. Fuck me right. You’d fuck me good, wouldn’t you?”

“Somebody that can handle you, hmm? What makes you think _you_ could handle _me_?” Peter wrapped his hands around Stiles’s hips and pulled him out from the counter a bit. Stiles followed, taking a step forward to make up for Peter’s step back.

“I can take whatever you give me,” he promised, practically purring the words. His hand skated down the man’s chest to his stomach slowly. Patience had never been a virtue of Stiles’s. He was always looking to the next step. “I saw how hard you were last night,” he reminded Peter. “It looked big. I bet I’d choke on it.” His hands dropped lower to touch the front of Peter’s pants.

In an instant, one of Peter’s hands was clamped hard around Stiles’s wrist, the other tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, pulling down so Stiles bent his knees slightly. Peter loomed over him, chest nearly touching Stiles’s, but not quite. “I don’t recall you asking for permission to touch me,” Peter said, his tone unnervingly calm compared to the strength of his grip. Maybe it was the drugs, but the combination sent a stab of panic racing through Stiles.

“You think you can take whatever I give you?” Peter laughed. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Stiles found himself practically whimpering. “I’m sorry. I can take it, I promise.” It was another voice he used with johns: the tone to pacify dissatisfied ones before they became irate.

“Get on your knees,” Peter instructed, both hands releasing him abruptly. “Hands behind your back.”

Stiles dropped obediently to his knees, no preamble, and tucked his arms behind his back, one hand gripping the opposite wrist. “What do you want?” he asked, keeping his mouth slightly agape.

Peter gripped Stiles’s chin. “Shut up,” he murmured, almost affectionately, brushing his thumb over Stiles’s mouth again. He pushed it inside, pressing down on Stiles’s tongue. “You’re going to leave your hands behind your back until I tell you that you can move them. Do you understand?”

Once Stiles gave him a nod of affirmation, Peter let go and rubbed at his cock through his sweats, inches from Stiles’s face. Then, slowly, he tugged the sweats and his boxers down until his cock was freed. It was a decent size, average proportions, and Stiles was glad. If this treatment was any indication, Peter probably wasn’t the type to go slow and be gentle.

Gripping him by the hair, Peter tugged Stiles’s head back until it met the cabinet behind him. He held Stiles there, free hand working over his length slowly. “I’m still not sure you deserve it yet.”

Stiles wasn’t sure if he was allowed to talk, but he had to plead his case here. “You could just come on my face,” he reasoned quietly. “But don’t you wanna know how much fits down my throat?”

That won a grin from Peter. “You’ll take it all.” He rubbed the head of his cock over Stiles’s lips. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. He pushed his cock into Stiles’s mouth with a groan. They both closed their eyes, Stiles focusing on keeping his jaw dropped wide open. Peter pressed forward steadily, and Stiles choked a little as it hit the back of his throat, having expected the man to give him a _little_ more time to adjust than that. No such luck. He pressed all the way in until Stiles was swallowing reflexively around him, air cut off. “Don’t move,” Peter said, and he started to rock his hips forward, fucking himself into Stiles’s mouth.

Stiles was good at giving head. He prided himself on it. This wasn’t that. This wasn’t skill. This was just being able to keep his teeth out of the way and not choke and suck in frantic gasps of air every time Peter pulled back far enough to let him. He squeezed his eyes shut and, after a few moments, managed to settle himself, getting into a rhythm.

When he opened his eyes again, they were watering slightly. He looked up at Peter through his lashes, and the sight above him had him whining around the man’s cock. The way Peter was looking at him, hungry, obsessive, pushed down the remaining unease in him and made Stiles hungry in return. He wondered what Peter’s psychology classes would have to say about the deep satisfaction Stiles got from being wanted like that. Fuck, Peter looked like he _needed_ Stiles.

The man’s movements and breathing quickened, and he groaned low in the back of his throat. “You look so fucking good like this,” he murmured, fingers tightening in Stiles’s hair. “You like sucking dick, don’t you? You’d choose dick over oxygen, wouldn’t you?”

Stiles might choose dick over oxygen, given the choice. Peter wasn’t giving much in the way of choice, though. He was commanding and took what he wanted. Sure, Stiles could have taken his hands out from behind his back whenever he wanted, but that wasn’t the game.

“I want to hear you gag. I want to watch you drool. I want you to take my cock like it’s the only fucking thing you were made to do.”

Stiles felt his own dick getting hard in his borrowed boxers. The front was loose, and it was practically poking out of the front pocket. He moaned. As Peter continued fucking his face, Stiles saw his nose twitch, and he cocked his head to the side as he looked down at Stiles.

“You’re hard, you little slut,” he realized. He gave a particularly hard thrust that had Stiles choking. “I’m going to cover your pretty little face.” Stiles felt a little bit relieved at the announcement, because he definitely would have choked if Peter came in his throat. The man pulled away, fingers wrapping around his cock as he jerked himself off. “Tongue out,” he instructed.

Stiles tipped his head up obediently, eyes squeezed shut and tongue out. He was aching to touch himself. With a grunt, Peter came onto his face, most landing on his mouth, but some on his cheek, clinging in his eyelashes.

“Fuck,” Peter sighed. He tapped his cock against Stiles’s tongue and pulled back. “Good boy.” The pet name rankled, but Stiles didn’t voice his complaint. “You can get up,” Peter told him. “Go clean yourself off.”

Stiles heard him moving away and knelt there for a moment. It felt weird, being given permission like that. He also couldn’t open his eyes until he’d wiped his face off. He groped for the counter, pulling himself to his feet, then carefully wiped at his eyes with his fingers. His face was a mess. Stiles looked down at his still mostly-hard dick, then up at Peter, who was pouring himself more coffee.

So apparently that wasn’t going to happen.

Whatever. Peter had gotten himself off after the fact last night, he was sure. Stiles would just have to do the same. He headed upstairs to the bathroom and went straight for the shower. He washed his face first, then stood under the stream of hot water and wrapped a hand around his cock, jerking himself off slowly. It wasn’t much longer before he heard the bathroom door open. Stiles opened his eyes slowly, not concerned or even surprised that Peter was playing peeping tom. It was pretty hot, having a guy look at him like that. He gave a showy little moan, then turned and leaned his back against the tile so the man could see him properly.

Peter was leaning against the sink, arms folded over his chest. “I don’t believe I said you could touch yourself,” he said, gaze sliding over Stiles shamelessly.

Stiles huffed a laugh. “You didn’t say I couldn’t,” he shot back with a grin. “Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much yet. Any requests?”

Peter stepped forward, hovering outside the shower. “I want you to ask me for permission,” he said. “Whenever you touch yourself, I want you to _beg_ me for permission. Do you understand?”

More and more, Stiles was thinking that this arrangement Peter had suggested wouldn’t last very long after all. But he would see how long he could hold out. He let go of his cock, instead running his hand over his stomach. He was still feeling confident that he could twist this whole situation, get the upper hand. “Professor, please let me touch myself,” he cooed, arching his back and displaying himself as alluringly as he could. “I got so hard sucking your fat cock. I _need_ to or I’m just gonna walk around hard thinking about it.” He bit his lip, ducked his head, and looked up at Peter through his lashes. It wasn’t particularly sophisticated as manipulation went, but it worked on most men he dealt with.

“No,” Peter said, and for a moment, Stiles was worried that he wouldn’t get his permission. “You need to? No, Stiles, you want to.” He shook his head, then smiled, seeming to cave. “I suppose it is your first day. Say please again, and call me ‘sir’ this time.”

Stiles grinned. “Please, sir. I want to come for you, sir.” He ran a hand up his chest, over his neck and into his hair, head tipping back.

Peter licked his lips. “I want you to wrap your fingers around your cock,” he instructed, and Stiles followed his directions. “Yeah, like that. Tease the head. Use both hands.”

Everything was so specific, so _particular._ Stiles found it was a turn-on, having someone pay that much attention to his pleasure. He didn’t think it would take him very long. He sighed, “I’m close.”

“You’re not allowed to come,” Peter barked, voice suddenly sharp in a way that made Stiles jump a little, strokes faltering. “Slower,” he said, and Stiles went slower. “Slower,” he repeated. “You don’t come until I tell you to. Do you understand?” he growled.

Stiles didn’t really like the sound of that rule, but he wasn’t about to argue. At least not now, naked and wet and cornered in this bathroom. At least the unease helped him to rein himself in a bit. He nodded unsteadily, whining and biting his lip, and squeezed at the base of his cock to stave himself off.

Finally, what seemed like an eon later, Peter breathed, “Come for me,” and the relief washed over Stiles harder than the orgasm. He let go of the base of his cock, tipped his head back, and moaned loudly, coming over his hand and into the running water of the shower. It was washed away in seconds, leaving him clean and panting, face flushed pink.

Peter smirked at him, then turned and walked out of the room without another word.

What a weird fucking dude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: controlling behavior (stands for the rest of this fic), rough oral


	4. Enforcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Peter find a point of disagreement in their little arrangement.

Peter didn’t get any less strange, but Stiles did start to get comfortable, finding a sort of rhythm in this new arrangement. For one, the list of rules he’d given at their first breakfast was only the tip of the iceberg. Peter’s rules had rules: no complaining about the rules, for one.

Another strange quirk: For three nights at the end of the first week, Peter told Stiles to go to his room early, just after sunset, and told him not to come out until morning. When Stiles had to pee on the second night and tried to get out to go to the bathroom, his bedroom door was locked from the outside. He ended up pissing out the window.

And after almost two weeks of Stiles living in the man’s house, they still hadn’t had real sex, just those weird come-when-I-tell-you games. But whatever. It was a roof over his head, free, and the chores the man had him doing weren’t bad at all.

In the morning, Peter put a list of tasks on the fridge, and Stiles had until the man got home from work to finish them all. Simple stuff, too. Mow the lawn, take out the trash, clean the bathrooms, do the laundry. Sure, it took him an hour to get the fucking mower started, but now that he’d taken care of that, it was pretty smooth sailing.

That day, Peter had left him a recipe for chicken parmesan to make for dinner. Stiles didn’t think he had fucked it up too badly. The breading was sort of falling off, and the undersides were darker than they should have been, but it wasn’t terrible for a first attempt. Plus, there was a salad to balance it out, and it was pretty hard to fuck up a salad. He was just setting the table when the door opened.

As he came down the hallway into the kitchen, Peter shrugged out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair and tugging his tie loose. “Smells fantastic,” he commented as he came around the kitchen island to intercept Stiles at the stove.

It was strangely easy to accept the domesticity of it all. Like he was some fucking housewife, cooking and waiting for her husband to come home. Stiles was doing his best not to picture it like that. “Tastes even better,” he promised, though he honestly had no idea. Food was food. It was generally good to eat. And he was pretty sure what he’d made was edible.

He caught Stiles’s jaw in his hand and pulled him in to press their lips together. It was a possessive kiss – all of Peter’s kisses were. They had started on the third day, and since then, Peter would grab him and plant one on him seemingly whenever the mood struck. That was strangely easy to accept, too.

One thing hadn’t been quite so easy, though.

“You’re such a good boy,” Peter murmured against his lips.

Stiles hated the words, and Peter said them _all the time_. Sure, he’d had plenty of customers that used them, too. It wasn’t like he couldn’t smile and bear it for an hour until he got paid. But hearing them over and over again from the same lips was getting under his skin.

He tried to school his expression, but he couldn’t help the curl of his lip. Immediately, his mood soured. He felt less like a comfortable, domestic piece of Peter’s life, and more like some kept dog. “A good maid, you mean,” he snapped, and even Stiles could tell how odd the emotional flip must seem. He couldn’t help himself, though. “You know how long it takes to clean out a fridge?” It had been one of his bigger tasks for the day, but he hadn’t minded much at the time.

Peter’s expression tightened, lips pressing into a thin line of displeasure. “If you keep it clean, it won’t take you so long next time,” he advised. “Are you complaining?”

Stiles knew it was a stupid thing to get pissy over. He _knew_ that. But it still bugged the shit out of him. Instead of stopping to pick a fight, which was his first instinct, he went around Peter, bumping his shoulder as he headed for the salad on the kitchen island.

“Stiles,” Peter said. His tone would almost sound placating if there wasn’t an edge of irritation beneath it. “You’ve been such a _good boy_. Don’t ruin it.”

Stiles’s jaw twitched, shoulders bunching up, and he marched the salad over to the kitchen table, where he set it down roughly. “Yeah, well, if you wanted a _good boy_, you should have picked up some college asshole,” he shot back. “I can complain if I want. It’s a free country. You hungry or what?”

Peter stared at him, nostrils flaring, breathing slowly. Stiles realized dully that the look on his face was barely restrained rage. After a moment, he walked over to Stiles and grabbed him by his hair, yanking him closer. “You don’t want to be a good boy, Stiles?” he asked, a threat coursing through every word. “I don’t think you want to know what I do to bad boys. Now, tell me: are you my good boy?” Every time he said the words, he tightened his grip ever-so-slightly. Stiles didn’t wince at the pain, just stood there, meeting Peter’s gaze, defiant.

Despite the obvious heat in Peter’s expression, Stiles still figured he could logic his way through this disagreement. “Doesn’t matter if I want to be. I’m not,” he insisted. “You picked up a fucking whore off the street. You expect me to be good?” He laughed in Peter’s face, and even as he was doing it, Stiles knew it was fucking stupid.

In a second, he was over Peter’s shoulder like he weighed nothing, torso dangling down the man’s back and one surprisingly strong arm wrapped around the backs of his thighs. Despite his fear at what would come next, Stiles had gotten to see a split-second of unguarded, furious rage on the man’s face, and that gave him an intense rush of satisfaction that just might be worth it.

Stiles didn’t put up a fight on their way upstairs. As far as he was concerned, he’d won. Proved his point. He was a no good asshole and Peter never needed to call him _good boy_ ever again.

Once they got into the bedroom, Peter heaved him down onto the bed. “You want to be a bad boy? Fine,” he snarled.

Stiles got to see that expression once more before he was flipped onto his stomach, one of his arms yanked to the top of the bed. He hadn’t been on Peter’s bed yet, so he was surprised – but maybe not too surprised – when the man produced a restraint strap from the top corner of the mattress. He fastened it around Stiles’s wrist, then went to the other side to do the same.

“Your food’s gonna get cold,” Stiles told him flippantly.

Looking to the side, he saw Peter unbuttoning his shirt. Hey, maybe he was finally going to get fucked. And all he had to do was throw a tantrum. He watched as Peter wordlessly deposited his shirt into the hamper, then took off his belt. He stood with his back to Stiles for a moment, stroking his fingers over the leather. He moved back toward the bed and Stiles heard him drop the belt next to his hip.

“Shut the fuck up,” Peter told him, then disappeared in the direction of the walk-in closet. Stiles sighed and thumped his forehead against the sheets.

He heard Peter’s footsteps approach again, and he heard the knife open. It wasn’t very large, but it obviously opened with some sort of spring lever. Stiles looked over at him with wide eyes, heart thumping in his chest. Oh fuck no. He didn’t survive all this time to get murdered like this.

Peter grabbed the bottom of Stiles’s shirt and started cutting his way up the back. Stiles pressed his face back into the bed, staying very still and keeping his eyes closed until the man had cut through the back, then up to the sleeves. Stiles heard him close the knife and set it on the bedside table before he pulled the shirt out from under him. In another moment, Peter hauled his pants and underwear off. They hit the ground with a thud. Stiles didn’t care as long as the knife was out of the picture.

One of Peter’s hands slid up the back of his thigh, then landed hard on his left butt cheek. Stiles jerked and bit his lip. _Oh._

“I’m going to make you beg to be my good boy,” Peter told him, and Stiles felt a thrill of satisfaction born from a place of contrariness.

The joke was on Peter here. Stiles, over the past couple of years, had developed a bit of a _thing_ for spanking. He didn’t often run into johns that wanted to do more than a light hand spanking here or there, but every once in a while, he landed a guy that really wanted to bend him over his knee. But if Peter thought this was punishment? Fuck him. Let him think it. The only problem would be hiding how much he was into it.

Stiles shifted up, as if just trying to settle more comfortably, making sure his dick was pinned underneath him. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, and pressed his face against the bed.

“Yeah, whatever,” Peter shot back, sounding all too pleased with himself. Then Stiles heard him shift, heard the clink of metal. “I want you to count.”

The next slap was more than he’d expected, landing across both cheeks. Stiles jerked and cried out in surprise, the sound muffled by the sheets as he yanked on the restraints. The belt – Peter had picked up the belt to use on him. Stiles had taken as much before, but Peter sure seemed to be putting his arm into it. It stung, and it had taken him by surprise, but once that faded, there was a slow burn of arousal.

Stiles took a deep breath and glanced up at the man, expression guarded and face flushed. “One,” he growled, jaw clenched.

The belt came down again. And again. And again. Stiles was biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, burying his face in the sheets to stifle everything but his bit out counts. Ten hard blows with the belt, more or less on the same area. He’d started getting hard at the second, but now he was reaching the edge of what he could take. Still, it was fucking hot. More than any man had done spanking him before. And with the way he was lying, every time he jerked away from a blow, his cock rubbed against the sheets, pinned under his stomach.

“Are you ready to be good?” Peter asked.

Stiles picked his head up to answer, mouth open, but at that exact moment, Peter brought the belt down again on the tops of his thighs. It caught him off guard. His thighs were a little more sensitive than his ass, but he hadn’t been hit there yet either, so it was easier than the last few blows. Stiles moaned before he could stop himself, squeezing his eyes shut and dragging his hips against the bed more obviously. Fuck it, he’d given himself away anyway. It didn’t matter.

Silence hung between them for a moment.

“Are you enjoying this?” Peter breathed, almost sounding impressed. “You filthy little slut.” He dropped the belt onto the bed, and Stiles looked up at him again, a self-satisfied grin on his face. He couldn’t decide if the spanking or the baffled expression on the man’s face was more satisfying.

Peter went back for the closet, and Stiles had no idea what was coming. It probably wouldn’t be good news for him, but he didn’t care. He was sure he could coast on that feeling of smug satisfaction forever. He settled in, closing his eyes and waiting for Peter to return.

Soon enough, he felt something cool dragging against his flushed, sensitive ass. Stiles relaxed. What was Peter going to do, spank him harder?

When the object came down, Stiles yelped so loud it was almost a scream, jerking on the restraints, trying to pull himself up and away from the blow. It fucking _stung_. Did Peter just break the fucking skin on his ass? Stiles twisted around and saw Peter holding a long, thin wooden cane. “Fucking ow!” he shouted.

Peter grabbed one of his ankles and attached it to a cuff at the bottom of the bed. “I said count,” he said, then brought the cane down again.

Stiles didn’t even yell, could only gasp and whimper at the pain, tears burning in his eyes. He felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Twelve,” he choked out.

“Wrong,” Peter said, and the cane came down again. Stiles growled a yell through gritted teeth, fists clenching in the sheets. Again. Fuck, this pain was so different from the belt or a hand. And again. There was no satisfying slap and sting and burn. Just sharp, lingering pain. His fear and pain translated so easily into rage, but there was no outlet for it. Nothing he could do but lay there and cry and take it. Again. He just desperately wanted it to stop.

“This is what happens to bad boys, Stiles,” Peter told him. “This is what you wanted.” He dragged the cane down Stiles’s back, over his ass to his thighs.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said in a rush. “I’m sorry, I didn’t – I just don’t like when you say that and I – I shouldn’t have been an asshole about it.”

“You don’t like being a good boy?” Peter asked. He trailed his fingers over the sensitive, broken skin of Stiles’s ass. It stung, and he felt a tear drip down the side of his nose. “You’ll learn to like it. Better than being bad, don’t you think?” He grabbed Stiles by his hair and pulled his head back slightly so Stiles was forced to look him in the eye. “Are you going to be a good boy, Stiles?” he asked.

Stiles hated himself for doing it, but he nodded quickly, sniffling. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be good,” he agreed quickly. “Please don’t hit me again.”

“Good boy,” Peter praised. He released Stiles’s hair, then went about undoing his restraints. Once the last was released, he said, “Get out of my bedroom. I’ll have dinner alone tonight.”

Getting up was difficult. Stiles had to curl up and crawl his way to the edge of the bed, then twist to get down over the edge without irritating his ass. On wobbly legs, he looked up at Peter, a bit disbelieving. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? This guy was fucking nuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: dubiously consensual spanking, non-consensual caning, violent behavior


	5. Exception

Getting up was difficult. Stiles had to curl up and crawl his way to the edge of the bed, then twist to get down over the edge without irritating his ass. On wobbly legs, he looked up at Peter, a bit disbelieving. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? This guy was fucking nuts.

Peter, for his part, looked utterly unconcerned. “You’ll want to have a bath,” he advised.

The suggestion made his stomach twist uncomfortably, but Stiles knew it was a good idea. He didn’t think he could eat right now anyway, anxious as his stomach felt. He nodded and limped out of the room, going straight for the bathroom and crying while the tub filled up.

What the fuck! He was so angry, but he couldn’t bring himself to go take that anger out on Peter, could hardly walk with how badly his ass hurt.

He hissed at the sting of the open wounds as he lowered himself into the water. Once the initial burn passed, he lay back and stared down at the faucet, his bare feet pressed against the end of the tub just below it. In his mind, it morphed into another faucet, another bath. Different in appearance, but similar, too. From the smooth white of Peter’s tub to a pale yellow porcelain. From the modern, elegantly curved brushed nickel faucet in here to the simple, dated silver spout in Robert’s apartment. The feet below it were smaller and didn’t reach the end of the tub.

He closed his eyes, trying to chase the phantom images away. For a moment, the bathroom even smelled like Robert’s. Like fruity kids’ shampoo, reheated mac’n cheese, and dollar store non-toxic glue still drying on a school project. Like Robert’s aftershave. Like bleached sheets and bruise cream.

Stiles stayed in the bath until the water was cold and he had to get out or shiver himself to death. He got out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stared at the tub while it drained. Leaving the room felt intimidating.

The door opened without so much as a knock. “Did that help?” Peter asked, sounding concerned. Like he hadn’t been the one to cause the pain in the first place. He stepped in and held out a water bottle and a couple of painkillers. “Take these. It’ll help.”

Stiles took them, keeping his eyes on the empty bathtub. Was this really where he’d ended up again?

Peter cupped Stiles’s jaw in his hand and turned his face, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. It made Stiles’s stomach churn. It had felt easy and comfortable all week, and now he felt like he was doing something wrong, betraying himself. Crossing lines he’d promised himself he wouldn’t.

“Tell me why you acted out,” Peter said softly.

Stiles wouldn’t meet his eyes, looking empty and vaguely shell-shocked. “I wasn’t – I just want to go to bed,” he mumbled.

A hand stroked over his hair, his cheek. “Stiles,” Peter cooed. “You know that won’t do.”

He was naked. Helpless. How had he been so stupid? “You just aren’t as creative as you think, okay?” he said, trying to sound firm, but his voice was brittle as dry leaves. “This whole… call him a good boy, fuck him, then play nice act. You didn’t invent that shit, and I can’t...” His voice cracked, and Stiles felt his eyes burning. “I can’t do that again.” He forced the last out, every word heavy with his determination not to cry.

“Can’t do what again, Stiles?” Peter pressed softly, hand cupping his face. “Who hurt you?”

Fuck. Was this a bad idea, telling Peter something so sensitive? Or maybe it would just make him ease up, once he understood where Stiles was coming from. Maybe most importantly, Stiles didn’t think he had enough fight in him to not cave and tell the man what he wanted to know. “It was a long time ago,” he said. At his age, that hardly made things better. He clutched at the towel around his waist. This seemed like a lot to tell. Peter hardly knew anything about him except that he was a runaway. “I had this foster father. He liked to call me that.” That was enough to answer the man’s questions, really, but Stiles found his eyes drifting back to the bathtub. “He used to give me a bath after,” he added.

There was a pause as his words sunk in, then Peter sighed and pulled Stiles into a hug. Stiles’s hands were shaking, but he didn’t fight it. He clung to the bit of affection more eagerly than he wanted to admit. He was already pliable, primed from those old memories. All it took was a hint of love, and he was soft in the man’s arms.

Peter pulled back and sat on the lid of the toilet, pulling Stiles to stand between his legs. Stiles stared at the bit of ground between them.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said, taking Stiles’s wrist and pressing his mouth to Stiles’s palm. “I suspect… I suspect a lot of your behavior, your acting out and risky behavior, that’s you trying to prove that you’re not what he said you were. Not good. It’s not healthy, Stiles. We can make those words a good thing for you.”

How could Stiles explain the endless layers of connotations he had with those words? He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the top of Peter’s head. “It makes me feel like I’m… like I’m stupid or something. Like…” He swallowed, having to gather himself before he could continue. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to, just believed everything he said, and I feel like...”

It was hard to explain. For the most part, this arrangement with Peter had been a godsend. But there was some part of him that worried he’d been tricked again. Despite the blood soaking into the towel around his ass, it didn’t occur to Stiles that it might have already happened.

Peter’s hands settled on his waist. “You are not stupid,” he said firmly. “Stiles, those words are praise, and you should think of them that way.” His thumbs stroked over Stiles’s hipbones, tracing down to the towel around his waist. “I want you to get excited when I call you that. I want your body to crave those words,” he murmured, pulling Stiles in closer. He pressed his lips to Stiles’s stomach, just below his navel, and looked up at him. “Let me help you. Let me help you think of them as a good thing.”

And Stiles wasn’t sure if it was possible, but he also didn’t know if he had it in him to argue. Besides, Peter was the shrink. He probably knew more about that shit. “Okay,” he agreed quietly. One of Peter’s hands slipped lower, touching his soft cock through the towel. Stiles tensed. “I don’t know if I can...”

“It’s okay,” Peter insisted, and Stiles wasn’t sure if he meant that it was okay if he couldn’t get hard or that it was okay for Peter to touch him. He didn’t argue, though. Peter kept touching, gently, and smiled at him. “See? There’s a good boy.” He kissed the same spot, then moved lower, hands tugging the towel from around his waist. “I want you to sleep in my room tonight,” Peter told him.

It was the first invitation he’d given Stiles to stay the night in his room, and it surprised him. But maybe that was how something like this worked. Stiles opened himself up, shared something difficult, and now Peter was pulling him in closer.

“Okay,” Stiles agreed.

He wrapped a hand around Stiles’s cock, and it did show a little bit of interest, slower than usual. Peter kissed each of his hips, then let go and stood up. “Come,” he urged, taking Stiles’s hand and leading him out and into the bedroom. He gestured toward the bed. “Lie on your stomach,” he instructed. Stiles must have looked apprehensive, because Peter quickly added, “Punishment is over, I promise.”

Peter headed to his en suite bathroom, and Stiles got onto the bed, lying on his stomach and pillowing his head on his arms. He felt more vulnerable than he usually might in this position. It wasn’t just his ass exposed, after all, but very sensitive open wounds. He glanced over his shoulder as Peter returned.

Holding up a little white tube of what looked like some sort of ointment, Peter assured him, “This will help.” He came up to the side of the bed, putting a knee on it beside Stiles’s hip, and opened the bottle. Very gingerly, he went about applying the ointment, which had an immediate numbing effect. All of the ache started to fade in a moment, much more effectively than he’d expected.

Once he was done, Peter went to the dresser and came back with a pair of boxers. He threaded them onto his legs, murmuring, “Lift,” when they got up to his thighs. They fit loosely enough that it didn’t irritate the welts.

After a few more moments, Peter came back into his view, naked, and climbed onto the bed next to him. For a moment, Stiles worried that Peter was expecting something from him, sexually, but he just settled comfortably on his back and tugged the top sheet over them both from the foot of the bed. Once they were settled, Peter leaned over and pressed his lips to Stiles’s shoulder blade.

Stiles tugged a pillow down from the top of the bed, hugging it awkwardly and shifting as sideways as he could get without letting his ass touch the bed. “Sleeping like this tonight, I guess,” he mumbled. His eyes drifted down to Peter’s hand, resting on the bed between them. Feeling a moment of boldness – and need – he reached out and put his own on top of it. “I’ll be okay. I’ve had worse,” he said, and Stiles wasn’t sure why he felt the need to reassure Peter, but he did. He focused on the feel of Peter’s hand, warm and anchoring under his own, the sound of the man’s breathing.

That night, miraculously, he had no dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Discussions of child sexual abuse, trauma reactions, disregard of trigger words, dubiously consensual sexual touching


	6. Education

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles snoops. Peter and Stiles discuss Stiles's history.

Things had felt tense the morning after the caning incident, but they settled slowly over the next couple of days. The welts on Stiles’s ass were still tender and healing. He was still expected to do chores, but he’d noticed that none of them were too strenuous.

It was Tuesday, three days after the caning, and the biggest task on his list was: _vacuum (you can skip the stairs)_. While he was doing the second floor, he paused outside Peter’s room, uncertain. One of their rules was no going into the bedroom or office without permission. Surely being told to vacuum the house counted as permission, right?

Stiles decided it did, but also wasn’t going to mention it to Peter once he got home. He did the bedroom quickly, having already seen it plenty of times anyway. The office he hadn’t seen since his first day here, and that had been a mere glance through the open doorway.

It was as stiffly decorated as the rest of the house, maybe more so. Dark wood, like the bedroom, a burgundy oriental rug in the middle of the room, which matched the drapes. There were two taut black leather chairs in front of the wall of bookcases, an end table between the two of them. The desk was clear, nothing on top except a lamp and a charging cable for the laptop.

Stiles started vacuuming. When he got over to the bookshelf, he paused, frowning. A lot of the books weren’t in English, titles like _Vetus __B__estiæ_ and _Criaturas Misteriosas Do Leste_. Some of the English books were about psychology, which is what he’d expected. But others were called, _Druidic Magicks _and _The New Cryptology_. Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of that and how it fit into his ideas about Peter. It did make him fairly sure that he hadn’t been meant to vacuum the office.

That day, Peter got home from the school early and went to the dining room to grade papers. Stiles had noticed that he rarely used his office for work unless it was early in the morning, before Stiles woke up. After finishing up his last task of the day – putting away laundry – he fixed a couple of sandwiches and poured Peter a drink. Whiskey sour, his usual. He brought everything into the dining room on a tray, poking his head around the corner into the room before stepping in.

Peter had abandoned his tie and jacket over a chair, and the sleeves of his button-up shirt had been pushed up to his elbows. The top two buttons were undone.

“Hungry?” Stiles asked. His own attire was much more casual. He’d been sticking to loose basketball shorts and no underwear, so nothing would be pressed against his scabbed-over welts. His feet were bare, and he was wearing one of Peter’s old college sweaters.

Peter looked up at him and smiled warmly. “I could eat,” he agreed. He scooted back from the table and waved Stiles over. “Come here.”

Stiles set the tray next to the stack of papers Peter had been working through and ducked his head down for a kiss. Peter pet a hand over his face. “Thank you,” he said. He tugged Stiles in to sit on his lap. Stiles hissed at the first contact between his ass and Peter’s thigh, but shifted so he was sideways, his upper thighs on the man’s lap, ass hanging off.

Peter reached for his drink. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yessir,” Stiles agreed, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders, more for balance than affection. He rubbed a hand over the man’s chest, glancing at the essays splayed out on the table in front of them. “Do you have a lot more work to do tonight?”

Peter stroked a hand through Stiles’s hair and hummed, leaning in and kissing his neck. “I do. A few more hours. Essays take a while.” He nuzzled Stiles’s cheek with his nose. “Keep me company?”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed with a wider grin than he’d intended. It was probably sad, how satisfied he felt knowing that Peter wanted him around. Still, he knew he could only stay in this position for so long before his feet fell asleep. “Could you grade on the bed?” he suggested. “It would be more comfortable...” Peter started to sigh, looking annoyed. He hated anything even resembling a complaint. “I could rub your feet or something,” Stiles insisted quickly.

“Why don’t we eat first,” Peter told him, reaching to grab himself a sandwich. It wasn’t a no, and that was good enough. Stiles probably shouldn’t be trusted eating on a bed anyway.

As he grabbed and took a bite out of his own sandwich, Peter asked, “What have you eaten today?”

Stiles waited until his mouth was slightly less full before answering. “I had a bunch of leftovers.” He could really put away food when he put his mind to it.

Peter traced a hand over the curve of Stiles’s hip and hummed. “You’re used to eating like you don’t know when your next meal will come,” he observed.

With a frown, Stiles opened his mouth to defend his appetite – he was a growing boy, after all – but Peter’s attention had already gone back to the papers in front of him.

The paper on the top of the stack was titled, _Physiological Indications of Trauma_. Peter liked to make him sit still and quiet like this, and it drove Stiles bonkers. If he jiggled his leg or fidgeted, Peter would tell him off. So he just focused on his food and counted the beams in the wood-paneled ceiling. After a bit of reading and eating, Peter asked without looking up, “What’s the furthest you got in school?”

Stiles shrugged a shoulder. “I mean, they always stuck me in GED when I was in juvie, but I haven’t been to school-school since, like… sixth grade?” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Would you be interested? In school? Home school, of course.” It took Stiles by surprise, mostly because he assumed that Peter was offering to do the homeschooling himself. He was a teacher, after all. “I don’t care either way,” Peter explained. “I’m just curious if you’re interested. There’s a lot of learning that happens between sixth and twelfth grade.”

Stiles set his sandwich down and chewed his lip uncertainly. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at Peter warily. “Um, I don’t think… I’m not exactly a good student. And I don’t just mean the no school thing. I had problems before. I drove teachers nuts.” It wasn’t a ‘no.’ It was a ‘you don’t want to bother.’ He’d seen Peter angry, and he could only imagine how frustrated he would get trying to wrangle Stiles in an educational setting.

“I’m not asking if you think you’re capable,” Peter said, sounding irritated. “You always had problems – with other kids? Or with the schoolwork itself?”

Stiles shrugged again. “Both, I guess? I always got in trouble and the teachers always said I was trying to make problems. I couldn’t get through reading assignments, missed stuff when the teacher was talking, could never remember the homework...”

“Did they ever test you for ADHD?” Peter asked.

“No. I think… I mean, I don’t know if anyone was really paying that much attention. They just wanted me to sit still and shut the fuck up for once.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “And not getting you tested was a great way to get what they wanted,” he muttered sarcastically. “Morons. Honestly, it explains some things about you, though. You look like you’re being tortured every time I make you sit still, and you tend to jump from topic to topic.”

“So you would still want to teach me? If I have ADHD?” Stiles asked.

“I would, if you’d care to learn. We may need to take some different tactics, maybe get you medication to help you focus during study time. I’m sure I could manage.”

If what Peter was saying was true, it would explain a hell of a lot of Stiles’s school woes, if not all. But he wasn’t nearly that optimistic. “Okay, but… but what if it turns out I’m just dumb or something?” he asked, cringing at his own words. “Are you gonna, like, get sick of trying to make me learn shit?” By which he meant, was Peter going to get mad like he had before?

Peter huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Dumb people don’t survive what you’ve survived.”

Stiles dropped his head onto Peter’s shoulder with a sigh, seeking some sort of reassurance. “Sorry, I mean… if you’ll teach me, it’d be cool, but I don’t want it to be like...” He didn’t have the right words to describe his fears without sounding accusatory.

Peter pushed a hand through Stiles’s hair. “If you’re trying, I won’t get mad, no matter how long it takes. If you don’t try, you’ll be wasting my time, and _that_ will anger me.” He grasped Stiles by his chin and turned him so they were looking eye-to-eye. “Stiles, I’m not going to _cane_ you for struggling to learn.” He said it as if it was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard, and Stiles found himself huffing a laugh in agreement. “You were punished because you acted out. I understand schooling will be complicated and frustrating for you. I promise, as long as you’re trying, I’ll be happy.” He pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’s jaw.

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, conceding. “Okay, I can try. Thanks.”

“Good boy,” Peter praised, and it rankled less now than it had before their argument.

He kissed Peter’s lips, then pulled back. “I’m going to finish this sandwich and get on the bed. My feet are falling asleep.” He turned and bit into his sandwich, demolishing the rest in a matter of bites, his cheeks still puffed with food as he stood up and stretched his arms over his head.

Peter trailed his fingers over the strip of skin exposed by the stretch. “Wait,” he said. He finished the last bite of his own sandwich, then passed one stack of essays to Stiles, picking up a second stack and his pens to carry himself. “Alright,” he agreed, nodding toward the stairs.

Once they were in the bedroom, Peter dropped his stack on the bed. “Pick me one to mark based on the title that interests you the most,” he instructed. He went to the hamper and started to undress.

Stiles climbed onto the bed and started flipping through the stack. His knowledge of psychology was pretty much limited to an episode of _Dr. Phil_ he watched at a laundromat once. The titles seemed to follow in the same topic as the first he’d seen, though. _Maslow’s Security Needs and Irrational Anxiety_. _Age of Trauma Onset and Treatment Outcomes. Beta Blocker Therapy for Sexual Assault_. It all seemed focused on the sort of shit Stiles really didn’t want to think about, let alone talk about. He kept going through them, trying to find even one on a lighter topic.

Then suddenly, Peter was settling onto the bed beside him, wearing just a pair of sweatpants, and prompting him with an impatient, “Well?”

_Differential Diagnosis of C-PTSD._ Stiles grabbed it from the middle of the stack and passed it over quickly. “Uh, here,” he said, then scooted up the bed and flopped onto his stomach beside Peter.

Scanning the paper quickly, Peter arched an eyebrow. “Did you choose a random one or did this title interest you?” he asked.

“Uhh… kind of random,” Stiles admitted. “I wasn’t sure what to pick.”

“This is about Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, comparing it to the more common PTSD diagnosis,” Peter explained. “C-PTSD is what occurs when trauma occurs multiple times or over an extended period of time.”

Shit. He sounded like he wanted to talk about this. Stiles just nodded to show he was listening.

Reaching over to him, Peter carded a hand through Stiles’s hair, then traced it down to his jaw. “How long were you abused for?”

Stiles had his arms braced under him and stared at the gap between them, chewing on his lip. “Uh, about two years,” he mumbled, uncomfortable. “And then… y’know. Since then. Shit happens.”

“Shit happens?” Peter echoed. “And what does that mean?” He picked up a pen and started going over the paper, apparently planning to multitask this conversation.

Picking at a bit of lint on the sheets, Stiles sighed. “I dunno. Just… shit happens in the system and when you’re a whore. After I got out of Robert’s house, I was back in group homes, and I didn’t do so good there. I tried to get in with this gang, but no one really took me seriously. There was this guy, though, that said he was going to help me make some money… well, that’s how I got into selling ass. I didn’t stick around with him too long, though. Started doing things on my own when I was fourteen.”

“I assume he wasn’t kind to you,” Peter said without looking up. “The pimp.”

“Not so much,” Stiles agreed. “Didn’t seem like a pimp at the time. Said he was my boyfriend.”

“You certainly weren’t the first or last to fall for that sort of line,” Peter assured him. “How old was the not-your-boyfriend, then?”

Stiles frowned in thought. “He turned thirty pretty soon after he, y’know, took me in or whatever.”

Peter frowned at that and thought for a moment. Then he asked, “How old were you when you went into foster care? Where are your parents?” It occurred to Stiles that this was the most attention Peter had paid to his personal history since they first met.

“Dead,” Stiles said, and this stuff was actually easier to talk about now, compared to the other shit he’d been through. “My mom had this… brain disease or something. I don’t really remember. But she died. And then my dad started drinking, and he just kept at it until he died when I was eight.”

“Liver failure?” Peter asked, glancing up and sounding vaguely surprised.

Stiles shook his head. “Choked, while he was sleeping. I found him in the morning.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Peter said. “Was he kind to you at least?”

Bobbing his head quickly, Stiles said, “Oh, yeah. My dad was… well, he was sort of off in his own world, obviously. I think he told me once that I looked like my mom and it was hard for him. But he never, like, hit me or anything if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s good at least.”

Stiles went on, not wanting it all to sound like doom and gloom. “He was actually the Beacon County Sheriff. I think his deputies were covering for him mostly, at the end.”

“I have a nephew in the sheriff’s office,” Peter told him. “He seems to like it. So there was no one else that could take you in after that?”

“Nah. My best friend’s mom wanted to, but she was going through this nasty divorce with custody issues, and she couldn’t afford another mouth. Then, after what Robert had been doing finally came out, she wanted to take me in again, but she was a single parent working full-time, and she didn’t qualify as a foster parent. Then I started getting into gang shit, and she didn’t want me around Scott.”

The last time he’d seen his childhood best friend had been nearly two years ago, during a cold snap. Stiles had been living on the street, getting desperate. He was on a bike he’d stolen, and the next thing he knew, he was behind Scott’s house, throwing pebbles at the window. Scott had always been a relentlessly kind soul. He let Stiles sleep on his bed, gave him some food and some money, though Stiles made a feeble attempt at turning it down. Afterward, he’d felt so pathetic and embarrassed about the whole thing, he was too ashamed to ever face Scott again.

“No brothers or sisters? Aunts or uncles?”

“Nope.” Stiles popped the ‘P.’ “Just little old me. My dad was an only child, and my mom’s family is all back in Poland, I guess.”

Peter had stopped grading his paper, tapping the red pen against it thoughtfully. “It sounds to me like you’ve been starved for stability your whole life,” he summed up.

Stiles didn’t really know what to say to that, whether he should agree or argue. Instead, he just shrugged and said, “I dunno. You’re the shrink, I guess.”

“As a _shrink_,” Peter drawled, sounding vaguely amused by Stiles’s summation, “I would say you have a fairly complicated history with older male figures. Do you find yourself attracted to them?”

‘Complicated’ was the understatement of the century, and Stiles actually laughed at it. “I guess? I mean, it’s all been older guys, but attracted doesn’t usually have much to do with it, the way I got by.” Past tense. He was feeling optimistic. Stiles reached over, taking Peter’s hand by the wrist and pressing his lips to the pulse point. “You’re pretty hot, though,” he murmured against the soft skin there.

Peter huffed a breath through his nose as if annoyed, but he didn’t look it. If anything, he looked fond. “I’ll take care of you properly,” he promised, tugging Stiles up and closer to himself. “I’ll give you all the structure you need.” He dragged Stiles into a heated kiss.

Stiles moaned softly against Peter’s lips, blissfully unconcerned by how fucked up this might be – openly discussing the fact that Peter was some sort of emotional proxy. He didn’t want to think about it that carefully. “Good,” he said, scooting up and wincing as he sat on the wrong part of his ass. “I need some taking care of.” It was something he would only say in the context of sex – at least normally. Stiles was very adamant about his ability to take care of himself.

Pulling back just a bit, Peter looked at Stiles like he was drinking in every detail of his face, trailing his fingers over his cheeks, dragging them up through his hair. It made Stiles feel valuable in a way he couldn’t describe, a way he craved.

“You wanna take care of each other now...” Stiles murmured, sliding a hand down Peter’s chest to his stomach, just above his belt. “...or do you have to grade papers?”

Peter’s lips quirked into a smirk. “I can take a break,” he said wryly, the ‘_oh, twist my arm’_ unspoken. Peter collected the papers spread on the bed and set them on the nightstand. Once they were out of the way, he pulled Stiles in again, tipping the boy’s head back and sinking his teeth gently into the pale skin of his neck. “Take off the sweatshirt and lie down,” he instructed, already tugging at the clothing.

Stiles looked down at the college sweatshirt. UCBH, a school he hadn’t a prayer of attending. “Looks good on me, doesn’t it?” he teased, then hauled it over his head by the back of the collar. His chest was bare underneath, skin pale and dotted with moles.

“Anything would look good on you,” Peter told him, and the praise did more than Stiles would ever admit, swelling his confidence bit by bit.

“The cuts are mostly scabbed over, but they’re still… y’know. Scabby,” Stiles warned, a little off the flirty tone he’d been using. He said it before he lay down, knowing he probably wouldn’t want to be on his back for too long. He’d been sleeping on his stomach.

“Roll over,” Peter told him, and Stiles gladly rolled onto his front.

Peeking over his shoulder, he grinned and asked, “What do you want, Professor?”

Peter moved over him, holding himself suspended in an effortless plank above Stiles, not touching him at all. He bent forward and pressed his lips to Stiles’s shoulder blade. “I want you to call me Daddy,” he murmured, then started to kiss along Stiles’s spine, working his way lower.

Maybe the request should have surprised him, but it didn’t. Stiles dipped his forehead onto the comforter and sighed happily. If anything, for a second it felt like he was working an easy job, in some motel. It was a common enough request. “Okay, Daddy,” he purred, wriggling his hips in invitation. “You gonna take care of me now?”

Peter still hadn’t fucked him, and Stiles wasn’t sure if he was up to it with his ass in the state it was just then. It wouldn’t be unbearable, but certainly not comfortable.

“Of course,” Peter agreed against his lower back. He nudged Stiles’s legs farther apart, stroking a hand over his hip. “There’s my good boy.”

It still felt weird, hearing those words without getting hostile, but Stiles was being conscious of it now. Good boy was good. He wasn’t going to get hurt, as long as he behaved. He wanted this. He chose this.

“Bend your knees a little – does that hurt?” Peter guided him up onto his knees gently, backing off to give him room.

Stiles shook his head and stretched his arms out over his head. “Mmm, no. Doesn’t hurt at all.”

Peter sat up and stroked his hands over Stiles’s back. “My god,” he breathed, tracing the lines of his ribs. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.”

Stiles felt like he’d burst with the praise. “All for you, Daddy,” he said. “All yours.”

Peter finally tugged his shorts down over his ass, pulling them all the way down and off his legs before returning, touching oh-so-gently around the edges of the welts. He leaned in, pressed his lips to one of them, then parted Stiles’s cheeks and dragged his tongue from Stiles’s taint to his hole.

The feeling ripped a loud groan from Stiles, his eyes rolling back and hands clenching in the sheets. He’d expected fingers, not this. “Ho-oly fuck,” he gasped, getting his bearings only to feel the tip of Peter’s tongue press at his entrance, working its way inside. “Pe -” Stiles began, but caught himself before he could say the man’s name, remembering the new rule just in time. “Daddy,” he said. “Oh, God, Daddy...”

Peter’s tongue pressed deeper, and Stiles could _feel_ the man moaning against him as he worked him open. He pressed his hips back, hissing at the feel of stubble as it pressed on the edges of his injured cheeks. It was a minor irritation, compared to the pleasure. A hand reached between his legs, wrapping loosely around his cock. Stiles felt almost dizzy, panting into the sheets, face red and eyes squeezed shut.

Peter hadn’t actually made him come very often. He even restricted how often Stiles could jack off – though that was still a pretty healthy amount. After all, Stiles did have the house to himself all day, and Peter couldn’t do much about that. Still, it had been a while since someone else made him feel this good. “Daddy,” he whined. “Fuck, Daddy, I’m not gonna last very long. You feel too good.” His voice was low and rough with pleasure, breaths unsteady.

The hand kept stroking him loosely, tongue working at his hole steadily. Peter pulled back then, pressing his thumb into Stiles’s hole and curling it to hook into his prostate. “Come for your daddy,” he breathed, one hand twisting over the head of his cock while the other pressed steadily into his sweet spot. Though he’d half expected Peter to tease him, make him work for the orgasm, Stiles was more than ready for the order. Peter said again, “Come for me, right now,” and twisted his hand.

Stiles came, and he kept coming, spilling copiously into Peter’s hand as the thumb inside of him rubbed relentlessly against his prostate. He hadn’t gotten off since before he’d had his ass beaten. Peter kept touching him until Stiles gasped, “Oh God – God, it’s too much,” the feel of Peter’s fingers now overstimulating. His legs trembled to keep him up in the spread, tense position he’d taken. Stiles was pretty sure he’d drooled a little bit.

Then strong hands were turning him back over, and Peter was leaning in to kiss Stiles, hard and possessive as always. “You’re too sweet,” Peter murmured into the kiss.

Maybe it was the endorphins from coming, but Stiles found himself clinging to Peter, licking into his mouth greedily and wrapping his arms around the man’s neck, legs around his middle so his legs crossed at the base of Peter’s back. He didn’t even care about the welts on his ass, just wanted to be as close as possible. To feel intimate, loved. Even if that wasn’t what this was, even if Stiles would never say it, that was what he was clinging to.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he breathed. Peter pulled back, and Stiles stared up at him, totally captivated.

Peter shifted back, but kept him close, pulling Stiles upright into his lap. His fingers slipped up and down Stiles’s spine, to the hair at the base of his skull back down to his ass. Ducking his head, he kissed Stiles’s throat, teeth teasing at the skin there. “You’re such a good boy,” Peter told him. “Daddy’s good boy, right?”

This soon after orgasm, Stiles didn’t even have it in him to think about the ‘good boy’ comment. He was jello in Peter’s hands, stroking his fingers over whatever skin he could find under the collar of the man’s shirt. “Do you want anything, Daddy? You want me to suck you off? I want to make you feel good.” He kissed Peter’s jaw.

“Mmm, yes,” Peter agreed. He shifted them again, moving so he was sitting with his back against the headboard. Stiles had no idea where that strength came from, the way Peter moved him effortlessly. He had beautiful muscles, but he was hardly jacked. “You want to make your daddy come? You’ve been so fucking good. Is that what you want, Stiles?”

Stiles grinned and moved back on Peter’s lap, setting onto his elbows and knees between his sprawled legs. “Yeah, Daddy,” Stiles agreed. “It’ll be so good for you.” He was about to go ahead and get started, but Peter’s tone caught up with him belatedly. Playing like this was a privilege. He looked up. “Daddy, can I take it out? Can I taste you?” He arched his back, licking his lips.

The question won him a broad smile from Peter, who stroked his hair and nodded. “Good boy. I like it when you ask. Now, go ahead, but slowly.”

Slowly. That sounded perfect. Stiles peeled away the layers between himself and his prize – belt, fly, pants, underwear. He kept his eyes fixed on the task at hand until he finally pulled Peter’s cock free. Stiles felt himself settle in a way, dropping into a quiet, passive state of mind that he’d known before but forgotten about. It wasn’t scary like it had been when he was younger.

Kissing up and down the length of Peter’s cock, Stiles nuzzled into it, humming and sighing hot breath over the head. He sucked on the man’s balls, then finally wrapped his lips around his cock, just enjoying the weight of it on his tongue. He lost himself in the act, mind going blissfully empty.

Peter stroked his hair again, murmuring, “Good boy.” His voice sounded deeper than usual, rough as Stiles worked him over, moaning and bobbing his head lower until the head slipped into his throat. After a while, Peter said, “You’re going to make daddy come. I want to come on those pretty lips.”

Stiles took the unspoken instruction and pulled back. Kneeling like he was, Stiles wasn’t likely to get much come on his face, and he was feeling like making a show of things. He lay down on his side between Peter’s legs, one hand still stroking as he pillowed his head on Peter’s thigh. Lying like that, he was jerking the man’s cock directly over his face, mouth open slightly and eyes sliding shut. “Let me taste you, Daddy,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the head and stroking faster.

“Such a good boy,” Peter repeated, voice strained. As he came, he groaned, “Stiles.”

Stiles could feel the come in the eyelashes of one eye, so he kept them both closed, temporarily sightless. Peter pulled him up into his lap and manhandled him until Stiles was straddling Peter’s thighs, face red and body bare except for the welts on his ass and the come on his face.

“Let me look at you,” Peter said, pulling Stiles’s hands behind his back and holding his wrists together.

Licking a bit of come off his lips, Stiles said, “I was good, Daddy.” The words sounded a little odd on his lips, but he knew that Peter would understand the weight of them. He was accepting the words – or at least trying to. Trying to relearn them, get used to them in a new context. This was good. _He_ could be good. A good boy. If he said it enough, he would get used to it.

“Yes, honey. You were so good,” Peter agreed. It was the first time he’d called Stiles that. Honey. He liked it. He carefully wiped the come off Stiles’s face with his fingers, feeding it into his mouth as he went. When his eye was finally clear, Stiles blinked his eyes open and grinned at Peter around his fingers. Peter pressed them down into his tongue.

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” Peter said, leaning forward as if he was sharing a secret. “Daddy’s going to fill you with come and make you his. Would you like that, honey?” He dragged his tongue along Stiles’s jaw.

And that… well, that sounded like bareback. He opened his mouth to ask if that was what Peter meant, but before Stiles got the chance, Peter added, “Tell Daddy how badly you want that.”

Right, maybe he had to find a different way of going about this. Stiles leaned forward and kissed Peter’s jaw. “I do, Daddy. I want it so much. I want to feel you inside me.” Obey the request first, then get to the question. He hesitated anyway. “You mean you aren’t going to… I mean, I thought you’d want a condom. Y’know, with me. ‘Cause I...”

“Cause you what?” Peter asked sweetly.

Because he was an underage whore that hadn’t been to a doctor since the last time he was in juvie.

Before Stiles could even think of how to put _that_, Peter said, “When I fuck my boy, I want to feel your skin on my skin.” Peter kissed him. “We’ll get you to a doctor beforehand. I can also be tested if you’d like, but I’m clean. There’s no need.” The offer to be tested was on and off the table before Stiles could even comment. “When I fuck you, I’m going to claim you, Stiles. You’ll truly be mine.” He tipped Stiles’s head to the side and nibbled at the skin of his neck, on a tender part where there was probably already a bruise forming.

Stiles hummed his agreement, though there was a twinge of anxiety there. The same twinge he always felt before getting tested. What if he had something? This time, the stakes were higher. If he had something serious, Peter wouldn’t want him for sure. He’d be out on the street with that hanging over his head. Even if he just had something small, it might put the man off. Disgust him.

Stiles shoved down the worry and rubbed his hands over Peter’s chest, a show of affection to cover up his anxious energy. “I want it, Daddy. I want to be yours. Feel you come inside me.”

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Peter practically cooed at him. He pulled Stiles forward and kissed his temple. “Do you want to sleep in here tonight?”

That question was met with an enthusiastic nod. Stiles was okay sleeping in his own room, sure, but he still got the occasional nightmare. He never got nightmares when he was with someone else. “Yes, please, Daddy.” His eyes landed on the pile of papers on the nightstand. “Do you want me to stay in here while you grade papers? I can go get my phone so I don’t bug you,” he offered. They both knew Stiles wasn’t capable of sitting quietly for too long, and it was way too early for him to be tired.

“Yes. Why don’t you go shower first and make Daddy a drink,” Peter suggested, nodding toward the door. “And hurry up. I want to work with you here.”

“Okay, Daddy.” The name was an oddly easy habit to pick up. Stiles was halfway out the door when Peter spoke up again out of nowhere. “Does weed help you sleep?” he asked.

Stiles grabbed the door frame and spun himself around, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “What?” he blurted. “I mean… I mean, yeah. Yes. Yes, Daddy.” It took him a few tries to answer properly, but he got it. “I didn’t usually have money for it, but I smoked sometimes to get to sleep.” He chewed on his lip. “Why, would you hook me up or something?” Stiles wasn’t old enough to buy legally.

Peter waved a hand at him. “I didn’t tell you to ask me questions. Go shower.”

Twenty minutes later, Stiles returned with his hair wet, wearing boxers. He had a whiskey sour in one hand and his phone in the other. Peter lay stretched out on the bed again, papers stacked on his lap and a red pen in his hand. On the nightstand, there was a joint and a lighter. Stiles grinned. “Dude, you are way cooler than I thought,” he said with a laugh.

Returning the laugh, Peter shook his head. “I resent that,” he huffed.

Stiles’s break in character only lasted a moment. Then he brought the drink over to Peter and bent to kiss his cheek. “Here you go, Daddy,” he purred.

Peter’s hand grazed idly over his thigh, then took the drink. “Good boy.” He took a sip.

Climbing onto the bed, Stiles settled in next to Peter but glanced over him at the joint. “So… can I smoke it?” he asked.

Humming, Peter set down his pen and the drink and picked up the joint and lighter. He placed it between his own lips. He lit the joint, inhaled, and exhaled into the air above him. “Come here,” he instructed, reaching out and taking Stiles by the back of the neck to reel him in. He took another toke, then pressed his lips loosely to Stiles’s, exhaling smoke into his mouth.

Stiles pulled back, holding it in, then sighed as he finally let the smoke out. It tasted like the good stuff, the kind you bought in a store instead of a street corner. Stiles kissed Peter, then nipped at his jaw. “You’re so good to me, Daddy,” he praised.

Peter’s teeth caught at his lower lip, tugging on it. “Nobody’s ever going to be as good to you as I am,” Peter told him, eyes locked onto Stiles’s own. Then, as soon as the moment had come, Peter was nudging him back, saying, “Alright, let me work.” He passed the joint to Stiles and picked up his pen.

Stiles sat back against the pillows and smoked. There was half a glass of water next to the bed, so he grabbed it, downed it, then ashed the joint into it.

“Don’t expect me to give you drugs often,” Peter told him without looking up. “I do want you to be sleeping better, though.”

“I never slept too good,” Stiles admitted quietly. “Weed helps. Booze helps.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Someone else in bed helps, too.”

Peter hummed, making a note on the paper, then said, “Do you sleep better when you’re in here?” Stiles had been allowed to sleep in here exactly once, the night after the caning.

“Yeah, I guess I don’t feel as jumpy if there’s someone else there.”

“We’ll look into something to treat the insomnia,” Peter told him. “CBD oil, sleeping pills – something less aggressive than weed and alcohol. Would you be interested in something like that?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, if you think it’d work. You’re the shrink. I’d try it. Unless you just want to keep giving me weed...” Stiles grinned and took another drag on the joint. He was close to thoroughly baked, but he would smoke the whole thing if Peter let him.

As if reading his mind, Peter reached over, taking the joint, and put it out in the ashtray on his side of the bed. Stiles tried not to pout. “I would rather figure out and fix the problem,” Peter said. “You’ve been drugging yourself for years to avoid dealing with your issues. Do you realize that?”

Things were getting pleasantly hazy in Stiles’s world, and he found he missed Peter’s first comment, distracted by the way his mouth looked when he said it. Stiles shook his head a little, trying to clear it, then spent an inordinate amount of time shuffling a pillow around so he could lay on his stomach next to Peter with the pillow under his chest. “Hey, I haven’t shot up in, like, three years,” he argued, and he couldn’t remember if he’d even mentioned the heroin to Peter. Stiles traced his fingers over the bedspread. “I stopped that pretty easy. I mean, I’m okay at least. I’m off it anyway.”

Peter’s hand was on his left arm then, turning it over and inspecting the inside of his elbow for track marks he wouldn’t find. “How long were you on it?”

Stiles shook his head. “Not long. Like, a few months. Esteban – the pimp – he got me on it, but then I got arrested and they cleaned me up. Didn’t want to go back to him, didn’t want to get back on it.”

“I’m not accusing you of being a drug addict, Stiles. Though, let’s be real here, you are. The weed, the pills – powders? Hallucinogenics? I imagine you’ve done it all in some soft of attempt to numb yourself.” He petted Stiles’s hair, then went back to his paper.

“I guess,” Stiles agreed mildly, rubbing at his face and working too hard to focus on this conversation. “I mean, a lot of times dudes just want me to take shit with them. Sometimes I asked for it.”

“If you let me, I can find you some drugs that will actually help you.”

“Sure, Daddy. I’ll try them if you think they’ll help.” Stiles really did hope this was a way to help, but he also had a vague feeling that this was just another case of a guy wanting him on something.

“Good boy. I need to figure out exactly what’s going on inside your little mind to figure out what I need to put you on. First things first, though. I want to get you learning. You’re certainly not stupid, Stiles, but you are quite behind, education-wise.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed. He looked around for his phone, found it, then opened up a game. He sucked at it, but that was one hundred percent because he was stoned. He played quietly for a while, then slowly started nodding off. When he finally fell asleep, it was with the phone still in his hands, head hanging down on the bedspread in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Discussions of child sexual abuse, trauma reactions, sex trafficking, character death (canonical and non), drug use, learning disabilities; Recreational drug use; Daddy kink
> 
> Side note: Thanks to everyone that has kudos'd and commented! I'm writing and posting way faster than I expected to, and you're all great motivators. On the previous chapter, someone requested that I email them spoilers so they could decide if this was the sort of fic they wanted to read. I just wanted to put out there that if anyone has specific concerns for future triggers or content, PLEASE feel free to DM them or email them to me at faceclaimdatabaselady@gmail.com.


	7. Eavesdropping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles starts on new medication. Peter gets an unexpected visitor.

“Still feeling jittery?” Peter asked, carding his fingers through Stiles’s hair. They were on the couch in front of the TV, Peter’s legs stretched out on the ottoman and Stiles’s head pillowed on his thigh. Peter had one of his boring foreign movies on, and Stiles had stopped paying attention eons ago. It was hard to read the subtitles lying sideways.

“No, now I’m just kinda sleepy,” he yawned, nuzzling his face against the soft fabric of Peter’s sweats.

Peter hummed and squeezed the back of his neck gently. “That’s about right. The dose should be wearing off around now.”

The dose was the ADHD medication Peter had started him on two days earlier, which Stiles was still adjusting to. So far, it had killed his appetite, made him chew on his lips until they cracked, and made him feel like he was going to vibrate out of his skin. But Peter, after snapping at him to stop shaking the dinner table jiggling his leg, had made him a cup of chamomile tea and assured him that the side-effects would mellow out soon.

On the couch, Stiles managed to drop into a sort of half-awake state, vaguely aware of himself and the rhythm of Peter’s hand in his hair, but not fully conscious. Then Peter’s hand withdrew and shook his shoulder.

“Get up. Go to your room and close the door.”

“Hmn?”

Peter flicked the back of his ear. “_Now,_ Stiles. Your room. Go in there and don’t come out until I come get you.” He pushed Stiles until he was sitting up, getting him onto his feet faster than Stiles would have gotten there on his own.

Stiles was halfway up the stairs when he heard the doorbell ring. Peter stood in the hallway next to the stairs and shot Stiles an impatient scowl that rushed him the rest of the way to his room. Downstairs, he heard the front door open.

Stiles glanced at his bed, then at the door to his room. Peter hadn’t told him _not_ to eavesdrop. Stiles quietly settled himself to sit on the floor with his ear to the door. He heard Peter’s voice.

“-drop by here unannounced, Derek. Really, I am.”

Then, an unfamiliar man’s voice. “There’s someone else here.”

“My social life is really none of your concern. Speaking of which, as much as I cherish your company, I can’t say I’m eager to hand over my evening plans to you right this instant.”

“Would I be here if it wasn’t important?” the stranger sighed.

There was a beat of silence, and then the sound of movement. “Wait there. We’ll go for a walk.”

After a moment, Stiles heard the front door close, and scrambled to his feet to the window of his bedroom. From the awkward viewpoint he had off the side of the house, he only got to see Peter and the visitor for a few seconds as they walked past the end of the driveway, then behind the line of the trees between their yard and the neighbors’. It was too dark to catch any details of the visitor. He recognized Peter’s usual blue raincoat. The man next to him, about the same height, wore a black jacket and had dark hair.

Derek. Stiles made a mental note of the name, not sure what else to do with it.

It didn’t take long for the relative thrill of their interruption to wear off, Stiles flopping onto his bed to play games on his phone. He really was crashing off the meds, though, and before long, the phone slipped from his slack grip, landing on the bed.

* * *

Stiles woke to the feeling of fingers skating up his calf and made a soft, confused sound. He heard a chuckle from the foot of his bed. “You fell asleep with your clothes on,” Peter said, and Stiles blinked his eyes open, looking down at the man in the dim light of his bedside lamp. One of his socks was already off, and Peter was peeling down the second. He bent forward and kissed the top of Stiles’s foot.

Stiles hummed and rolled onto his back when Peter nudged him over, undoing the fly of his jeans, shimmying both pants and underwear down his hips without any help on Stiles’s part.

“I like you like this,” Peter commented with a little smirk. “Quiet. Calm.” He slipped a hand under Stiles’s back, sitting him up and leaning in to press a kiss just below his ear. He murmured, “Be a good boy for Daddy, lift your arms up.”

As he followed the order, Stiles had an odd twinge of nostalgia, or maybe déjà vu. An image of being small, with his mother standing in front of him in his bedroom and saying, “Arms up!” in a bright, chipper voice before slipping a bright red sweater onto him. Her hair was curled, and she wore earrings that looked like Christmas ornaments.

Peter pulled Stiles’s shirt off over his head, then kissed him. Stiles felt the sleep-fog in his head start to clear as he kissed back, sighing into Peter’s mouth. The man tugged one of his hands down so it touched the front of Peter’s pants, which were already open. He must have undone his own fly while Stiles was still asleep.

Stiles rubbed Peter through his underwear, feeling his body react. “Daddy,” he started to say, but Peter placed a finger to his lips and shook his head.

“Shh, shh, honey,” he whispered.

Right. Quiet. Calm. Stiles bobbed his head silently and kept moving his hand, though the angle was awkward. After a moment, Peter pressed him back down onto the bed, then rolled him onto his side, facing away. A shuffle of movement behind him, clothes hitting the floor. A click and a slick sound, then Stiles felt Peter press up against his back, cock bare and lubricated against his ass.

They’d just talked about the logistics of how they would have sex for the first time. Tomorrow, a doctor would come over to take blood and give him a once-over. Then, once his tests came back clean, Peter would fuck him without a condom. Still, Stiles felt himself wondering if Peter had changed his mind. He thought about asking, asking what Peter was doing, but he didn’t

Quiet. Calm.

Stiles took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Quiet. Calm.

Peter wrapped a hand around Stiles’s thigh and lifted it, shushing him softly as he slipped his cock between Stiles’s legs, the head pressed against the back of Stiles’s balls. He lowered Stiles’s leg and thrust shallowly into the space between his thighs.

Stiles blew out his breath, relaxing. Right. Just this, then. This he could do.

He kept his eyes closed as Peter moved behind him, listening to the soft creak of the bed, the slickness of lube between his legs that squelched with every thrust. The soft huff of Peter’s breath against the back of his neck. Stiles wasn’t getting much in the way of stimulation from the thrusts, and Peter’s hand stayed wrapped around his hip.

It was weirdly soothing, the repetitive motion and sound of it, and Stiles felt himself drifting off again. He tried to fight it, shaking his head and opening his eyes to stay awake, but Peter just rubbed his thumb along Stiles’s waist and murmured, “Shh, it’s alright. You can relax.”

So he did.

Stiles woke later, briefly, as Peter wiped his thighs clean and tugged the blankets over him.

The lamp turned off with a soft click, and not a single floorboard creaked on Peter’s way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Daddy kink (this is gonna be pretty much every chapter from now on), no verbalized consent


	8. Examination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finally gets his medical exam.

The Monday after Stiles agreed to trying his hand at a secondary education, Peter came home with a monstrous stack of placement tests with a promise that they would be showing up on his daily task lists until they had ironed out how his schooling would progress. Stiles was to take as much time as he needed to complete each and was not to worry about the results. Wherever he landed, they’d work their way from there.

The first day had been a reading and writing placement test, and by the second day, he had a book assignment – _The Outsiders – _along with a math placement test. The amount of chores hadn’t decreased much, so the whole week had been a scramble to get everything done in time.

On top of that, Peter arranged for a doctor to come to the house on Saturday morning. The man was older, gray hair going white, and carried a big black bag of medical supplies like a doctor in a kids’ cartoon would. Though Peter left them alone in the dining room for privacy, Stiles was under no illusion that the things they discussed would be kept between the two of them. If Peter could pay this guy to look the other way on an underage runaway living in his home, he was pretty damn sure he could pay him to break doctor-patient confidentiality.

The doctor asked a while host of invasive questions.

How many men had he slept with in the past year? Stiles had no idea. A lot.

What types of sex acts had he participated in? Well, Stiles hadn’t let anyone take a piss on him, but other than that sort of thing – name it, he’d done it.

Did he always use protection? Maybe. Probably not. He tried to, but sometimes he was too fucked up or a guy would take the condom off in the middle of things.

What drugs had he done? No crack or meth, but most other shit he’d at least tried.

When was the last time he used heroin? About three years ago.

What age did he become sexually active? Eight.

How many times had he been sexually assaulted in his life? Stiles had no idea. A lot.

What was the nature of the assault? Rape? Molestation? Rape. He’d been raped.

The doctor had kept his eyes fixed on his notepad during that question and softly murmured, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Stiles.”

Had he ever had an STD? Yes, he’d gotten chlamydia twice. The last time was a year ago.

Did he have a family history of drug or alcohol abuse? Yes.

Any other family history of disease he knew of? Well, his mother’s brain disintegrated at the age of thirty-five – did that count?

Yes, that counted.

Though the man was even-tempered and kind, every question left his stomach churning uneasily, certain that this would all be reported back to Peter in excruciating detail. And that sat on top of his bone-deep worry that the results would come back with bad news.

Most of another week passed with placement tests and homework assignments alongside his daily chores. Stiles hadn’t been sleeping well, maybe because of the ADHD meds. When he finally did fall asleep, nightmares plagued him and woke him frequently. He’d been trying to keep on a cheery face for Peter, but he knew he was starting to look a bit ragged over the whole thing.

Friday, he decided to sleep in, having finally dropped into a deeper sleep sometime in the early morning. He might not get to all of his work, but he was _tired_ and he needed the rest.

His door opened around eleven without so much as a knock, and Stiles jerked awake, groggy and disoriented. “Lazy morning?” Peter drawled at him, and he didn’t look pleased. “I have your results if you’d like to wake up and hear them.”

A stab of panic rushed through him, all the more unpleasant in his half-awake state. Stiles sat up, rubbing at his face. “Do I – um, what do they…?”

Peter came over and sat on the edge of his bed, pulling papers from a flat yellow envelope. “I’m not sure what to tell you,” he sighed. Stiles’s heart dropped into his stomach as the man passed him the papers. He did actually know how to read an STD test result, after a long history of agonizing over them, but before he could get to the important parts, Peter added, “Except tonight I’m going to fuck your pretty little brains out.”

Stiles lifted his head and a grin slowly spread across his face. He shoved the papers back at Peter with a laugh. “You’re so mean!” he accused. He followed immediately after the papers, scooting closer and leaning up to kiss the corner of Peter’s jaw. “Mm, Daddy, are you really going to make me wait until tonight? I can’t wait to feel you in me.”

Just as easily as that, he was back in the game, back in his role. He really was a natural at it.

Peter stroked his fingers through Stiles’s hair. “I like making you wait,” he said, but he wrapped his arms around Stiles’s middle and pulled him haphazardly into his lap. Stiles settled in like he belonged there, legs draped across the tops of Peter’s thighs and an arm wrapping around the man’s thick bicep. “Maybe if you beg really pretty for Daddy, I’ll fuck you now.” He ran his hand up Stiles’s throat, then slipped two fingers into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue before pulling them back again. He grabbed Stiles’s chin roughly. “Come on, honey, let me hear you fucking beg.”

Stiles pouted at him. “Please, Daddy,” he whined, all childish petulance. “Please, you already made me wait so long. I wanted you to fuck me when I first met you. I wanted you to fuck me _ages_ ago, and I’ve been so patient.” He hadn’t been particularly patient, but Stiles had never been good at patience anyway. “I haven’t gone this long without getting fucked in – I don’t know how long.”

Though he was smiling in amusement, Peter snapped at him, “I didn’t say whine at me, I said beg.”

“Don’t you want to feel how tight I am?” Stiles pressed.

Peter laughed at that and scooped Stiles up into his arms. Stiles squeaked in surprise and pressed his face against Peter’s shoulder, snickering. Peter carried him into his own bedroom and set him on his feet near the bed. “Strip,” he ordered, stepping back to undo his tie and start on the buttons of his shirt.

Stiles kept his eyes fixed on Peter as he ran his hands over his chest, then pulled his shirt up and off, grinning all the while. “How do you want to fuck me, Daddy?” he asked. He teased at the waist of his boxers, then turned and slowly slid them down, bending forward as he stepped out of them.

He felt hands on his hips then, Peter’s clothed dick pressed against his ass. Peter tugged him up so that his back was pressed to the man’s chest, and a hand curled around Stiles’s throat. Stiles gasped and leaned back, eyes sliding shut. Peter’s mouth was hot against his ear when he spoke. “I’m going to tie you up so you can’t touch yourself,” he said, squeezing gently. “I’m going to eat your beautiful little ass until you can’t speak. Then I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you until you’re screaming my name and begging me to stop. You’re going to feel my cock in you for _days_.” His hips ground forward for emphasis.

Stiles reached behind him, running his hands over Peter’s neck and hair, wherever he could reach. “I want it so bad, Daddy. Please. Please fuck me. I want to feel you.”

The hand on his throat moved up, gripping his jaw hard and twisting his head to the side so he could growl more directly against his ear. “I don’t fucking care what you want, boy. You’re here for me. Do you understand?”

Stiles felt a thrill of unease at the tone, remembering how unconcerned he’d been right before the caning. But he’d been really good lately. He wouldn’t mess up.

Peter grabbed him by the hair and led him to the bed. In another moment, his arms were around Stiles from behind, the tie he’d been wearing wrapping around Stiles’s wrist and tying tight. He turned Stiles to face him, grabbing his chin again and squeezing until his lips parted. Two fingers were back in his mouth again, pressing farther back so they nearly teased his gag reflex. “Do you realize what a privilege this is, honey?” he murmured. “Only good boys get fucked. Do you understand?”

Staring up at Peter with his lips wrapped around his fingers, Stiles nodded slowly. “Ye’, ‘a-ee,” he said, his best attempt at a ‘Yes, daddy’ with his mouth full. With his hands bound in front of his crotch, he tried to think of how he could convince Peter that he was deserving, good. He wasn’t thinking about obedience so much as just making the man happy. He started to sink to his knees.

Immediately, Peter shook his head and grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling him back up. “Did I tell you to do that?” he asked. He pulled a tense Stiles to the edge of the bed and pushed his torso forward onto it so his bound hands were pinned under his chest. “Don’t move,” Peter told him.

He heard the clink of a belt buckle, then the slide of leather tracing up his spine, then back down. Squeezing his eyes shut, he flinched at the blow of the belt. He expected it to hurt way more than it did, the memory of the cane not yet faded. Instead, there was a nice sting, then warmth as blood rushed to the surface. At the second, still gentle, he found himself leaning forward into the bed, moaning softly.

“On your toes,” Peter told him, and Stiles pushed up onto his toes, glancing over his shoulder to see Peter standing there with the belt in his hand. He sort of wanted another spanking, but he also didn’t want Peter to get into it like he had before. The belt came down again, a little harder, but still well within his comfort level.

Then the belt hit the floor, and Peter had his hands curled around Stiles’s hips as he kissed his way down his spine. At last, he spread Stiles’s cheeks and buried his face between them, tongue working against his hole. Stiles groaned loudly into the sheets, hands twisting in the fabric. Peter ate him out for ages, until Stiles’s cock was aching and leaking between his legs and Stiles was reduced to noisy, panting gasps.

Peter pulled back and grabbed him by his hair, pushing Stiles onto his knees on the floor. He smacked Stiles’s cheek gently. “Open your mouth. Stick your tongue out,” he ordered, fingers making quick work of his fly, then shoving the slacks and underwear out of his way.

Stiles felt like his brain was running a few minutes slow. Luckily, Peter’s instructions were exact and didn’t give him much to think about. He closed his eyes, ready to relax his throat and give Peter what he needed. His bound hands rested on his knees, well within reach of his hard cock, but he resisted the urge to touch.

The head of Peter’s cock slid over his tongue, teasing for just a moment before he grabbed Stiles’s hair hard and pushed forward the rest of the way without pausing, going straight back to his throat. He was holding Stiles’s head with both hands now. Stiles was used to rough blowjobs, but this was more than even he had expected. He gagged almost immediately, choking and jerking back reflexively. The grip on his hair held him fast, though, and Stiles could do nothing but choke and struggle to breathe through his nose. He raised his hands to the man’s thighs, as if ready to push him away, but he didn’t dare, even as he struggled for breath. His eyes watered as he looked up at Peter through his lashes, pleading and yet somehow still desperate for approval, desperate to please. Stiles realized he would probably let himself pass out before he tried to fight the man.

“Good boy,” Peter sighed, rocking forward in rough thrusts. He moaned, then pulled away as abruptly as he’d started. By that point, Stiles was gasping for air, chin wet with spit, which he hastily wiped with his bound hands

Peter grabbed him by his biceps, lifting him effortlessly and shoving him backward onto the bed. “You think you can handle me, honey?” he asked, kicking his pants the rest of the way off.

Stiles had to squirm and struggle on his elbows to get far enough back on the bed. Once he was close enough, he reached over his head and grabbed the headboard to pull himself further back. “Yes, Daddy,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I can take it. I want it. Please.”

“Spread your fucking legs for your Daddy,” Peter told him, and Stiles did. His cock was still half hard, having wilted a bit during the blowjob. He licked his lips anxiously. It really had been a while, and Peter wasn’t small.

Peter climbed onto the bed between his legs and yanked at Stiles’s legs to pull his lower half onto his lap. He pushed Stiles’s knees up toward his shoulders. If nothing else, Stiles sure was flexible. Mercifully, Peter reached for the nightstand and came back with a bottle of lube. Stiles felt himself relax just at the sight of the lube. Knowing how rough Peter could be, he wouldn’t put it past him to try it with spit alone. Peter didn’t bother prepping Stiles first, though, just slicked his cock up and started to press against him.

Stiles had to bite his lip to keep from crying out at the stretch, just the wrong side of uncomfortable. Just as he was starting to think it was too painful, Peter growled, “Close your eyes.” The moment he did, Stiles felt the discomfort slipping away, leaving him with nothing but a feeling of fullness.

“Fuck, Daddy, you’re so big,” he gasped. He wanted to brace his hands behind himself, or maybe to hold his ass open for the man, but with his hands bound, all he could do was hang onto the headboard and clench his hands around the wood.

Peter didn’t wait for him to adjust once he was all the way in, just started a rough pace of short thrusts, each punctuated with a grunt or moan. The discomfort set in again, and Stiles struggled not to show it. Johns never liked to see that he wasn’t enjoying it, after all. The man leaned forward so Stiles’s ankles rested on Peter’s shoulders. The angle gave him a bit of relief, and he was able to focus on the feeling of Peter’s cock sliding ruthlessly over his prostate.

A hand wrapped around his neck. The headboard started to knock against the wall, and Stiles had to let go of it or let his fingers get crushed. Instead, he just braced his hands against it as his shoulders slid up on the bed with each thrust, pushing Peter’s hand lower on his throat, squeezing more.

Stiles gasped loudly, letting out a weak groan. “Oh fuck, oh Daddy, I...” Another rough hit to his prostate had Stiles’s eyes rolling back, the pain and pleasure shooting down his spine. The blood was pooling in his head as Peter lifted up on his knees more. Stiles felt suddenly, dangerously close to orgasm despite the lack of stimulation to his cock, other than the slide of it against his abs. “Daddy, I’m close,” he panted. “Daddy, I wanna come, please, I – fuck!”

Peter made a sound like a growl and squeezed harder, cutting off his air completely. “You come for me, Stiles. Right now,” he ordered.

Stiles opened his mouth to gasp for air, but got nothing. There was a thrill of panic at that, quickly overwhelmed by another rough blow to the prostate. He jerked and clenched around Peter’s cock, twisting to find some sort of leverage. He didn’t get that either, could do nothing but curl his toes and shake and come as his mind started to go hazy. With the way Peter had him bent and tilted, he came right onto his own collar and neck, some of it hitting his chin.

“Jesus,” Peter moaned, stilling for a moment. He released Stiles’s throat, grabbing him under the knees instead as Stiles went limp, exhausted as he came down from orgasm. Peter kept him bent and fucked into him again, as if he’d just started. He didn’t even seem winded. “There’s my good boy,” he sighed.

Stiles just lay there and took it, but Peter kept hammering into his prostate, relentless. He whimpered, twitching with each new jolt of over-stimulation. “Fuck. Fuck, Pet – Daddy, I -” Stiles’s hold against the headboard had slipped, but he straightened his arms out again as he was shoved up toward it. Peter rolled his hips in a particularly agonizing way. “Oh God, it’s so much,” he whimpered. He wanted to say too much, but he knew Peter wouldn’t like whining. The few brain cells he had left were all being directed at not pissing the man off.

Peter leaned forward, bending him even more so the backs of his legs ached. He licked at the come on Stiles’s collarbone and up his throat, then lifted back up so his face was directly over Stiles’s, their eyes locked on one another.

Stiles stared up at him, pupils blown wide, eyes slightly unfocused. Between them, he could feel his cock getting hard again, and it was too soon. He hadn’t even really had a chance to go soft. It was a different kind of pleasure, too. His nerves were so raw and sensitive from orgasm that it was verging on painful. Gasping and whimpering, he lowered his arms from the headboard, though he knew it would probably mean being driven head-first into it. He just wanted to touch Peter. With his hands tied, he could just barely reach them over the man’s head to tangle in his hair.

Peter ducked down again and bit his collarbone, hard. His thrusts became erratic. “God, you greedy little slut,” he snarled, and it sounded like praise. Stiles thought so anyway.

Fuck, was he going to come again this soon? Stiles could feel it pooling low in his groin, that curl of pleasure and pressure, tinged with the near-pain of hypersensitivity.

Peter lifted his head again, pressed their foreheads together. “You didn’t ask to touch me,” Peter said.

God, even being scolded like that did it for him – because maybe that was just Peter working up to another spanking.

“You don’t get to come again,” Peter told him, and it took a moment for the words to register. “You understand me? Don’t.”

Stiles looked up at the man, a little bewildered. He opened his mouth to protest, but a blow to his prostate had him yelping and putting his hands back up to brace himself. “I don’t – I don’t think I can – ah!” His toes curled behind Peter’s back, and he was so fucking close now. It was like being told he couldn’t made his body want to more. “It’s too much, Daddy. I can’t, please, I’m gonna.”

“Don’t you dare,” Peter growled, and Stiles could swear his eyes actually flashed in anger. Peter groaned, thrusts rough and haphazard as he chased his own orgasm. Stiles didn’t think he was going to make it, was considering grabbing his dick to stop from coming, but worried that Peter would misinterpret it. Then, just when he thought he was screwed for sure, he felt Peter come inside him, “Stiles,” a mere breath on his lips.

He rocked slowly for another moment, then pulled out. Stiles whined at the feeling. Peter kissed his collarbone, sternum, every rib, and finally his hipbone. For a beautiful moment, Stiles thought he was kissing his way down to his dick, planning to make Stiles come with his mouth. Then Peter collapsed beside him, grinning. “Good boy,” he praised, closing his eyes.

Right. Still panting and uncomfortably hard, Stiles rolled onto his side toward the man. He waited a moment, wondering if Peter just had to catch his breath. Finally, he murmured, “Daddy, I’m still hard.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then all at once, Peter was on him, a hand around his throat. “Are you fucking complaining?” he asked, squeezing. Stiles’s eyes went wide, panicked. “I said you get one. Did you not understand that? Don’t fucking ruin this.”

Stiles wasn’t used to this sort of thing. While most boys his age were busy willing away their erections, he’d already been dealing with the aggravation of trying to get excited with men he had no interest in. He wasn’t used to being hard and not getting off. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he said quickly.

Peter sat up and got a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the nightstand. He sat against the headboard as he lit it, then smoked quietly. He exhaled smoke through his nose and eyed Stiles, expression stoic.

Stiles held his bound hands to his chest and eyed the cigarette. Everything between them seemed like a game – what did Stiles need to do or say to get what he wanted? “Thank you for fucking me, Daddy,” he offered. It sounded right. He could feel Peter’s come leaking out of him, pooling on the sheets.

It seemed he’d guessed right this time. Peter smiled and leaned forward, the cigarette dangling between his lips. He undid the knot on the tie around Stiles’s wrists, freeing him. His wrists were red where they’d been tightly bound together.

“You did well, honey. Come here,” Peter said, sitting back and patting his thigh.

The relief that came with forgiveness was sudden and total. Stiles snuggled up against Peter, still hard. The man passed him the cigarette. “Savor it. I don’t want you smoking often.”

Stiles took a slow, careful puff on it. He didn’t often have the money for cigarettes, but it was a familiar comfort, and it showed on his face. He breathed the smoke out slowly and weighed his next question carefully. “Why, um, why don’t you want me to smoke much, Daddy?”

Peter blinked at him and said nothing for a moment. Then he said, “Because I don’t?” He took the cigarette back. “These are bad for you. Don’t you know?” He laughed softly, took another puff, then put it out in the ashtray on the nightstand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Discussions of past child physical and sexual abuse; unethical medial practices; Daddy kink; controlling behavior; orgasm control; rough sex; non-negotiated choking


	9. Earshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter helps Stiles with his homework. Stiles overhears something interesting.

Stiles had headphones in, his phone playing a chill electronic playlist that claimed to be good for “focus time.” He did feel focused, but that was probably more to do with the drugs than the music. In any case, he didn’t hear or notice Peter coming into the dining room until a hand covered his eyes, another tugging the earbuds free of his ears.

“I _said_,” Peter chuckled, ducking down to nip at the shell of Stiles’s ear. “Honey, I’m home.”

Eyes still covered, Stiles tipped his head back and was rewarded with a kiss. “Welcome home, Daddy,” he said with a grin.

“List the taxonomic ranks for me,” Peter instructed.

“Uhh...” Stiles wrinkled his nose as he thought. That had been in his science reading for the morning. “Kingdom, phylum… family, order...”

Peter clicked his tongue and tapped a finger against his forehead. “King Phillip Came Over From Great Spain,” he said.

“Huh?”

Peter uncovered Stiles’s eyes finally, leaving Stiles staring straight up into his amused-looking face. “It’s a mnemonic device. King Philip Came Over From Great Spain. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species.”

“Oh.” Stiles looked down at his math workbook, flipped it upside-down and wrote out the first letters from the mnemonic, then started to fill in the mnemonic Peter had recited. _King Phillip Came Over…_ He smirked and glanced back at Peter before writing in, _For Great Sex_.

Peter snorted and flicked him on the ear. “Cheeky.”

“Or King Philip Came Over For Gay Sex,” Stiles suggested.

“How progressive of him,” Peter drawled, dropping into the chair next to him.

“King Philip Came Only From Getting Spanked,” Stiles continued.

“Now you’re just projecting.”

Stiles laughed and set his pencil down, leaning across the gap between them to silently beg for a kiss. Peter obliged, running a hand through his hair and humming against his lips.

“Finish your homework. I have some quizzes to grade tonight,” Peter said. He stood and petted Stiles’s hair once more before kissing the top of his head and leaving the room.

A little over an hour later, Stiles went upstairs to hear Peter on the phone in his office. He was speaking in a low tone, but was getting louder as he got more agitated, enough that Stiles could hear through the door.

“Listen, you cryptic, fake Buddhist motherfucker,” he was snarling. “The deal you made was with my family, not my sister. Your obligations stand.”

Stiles hadn’t really asked for details on Peter’s family, and the bits he had shared were vague and cagey. He knew he had two sisters and some nephews and nieces, but Stiles never heard him talking about or to any of them. He didn’t go to visit them as far as Stiles knew, and they certainly hadn’t come around Peter’s house.

He lingered at the top of the steps, inching closer to the office door to listen.

“Well, frankly, I don’t give a shit about your moral high ground. You tell Satomi, the next thing she'll take from me is -” Peter stopped talking abruptly. Then, louder but in the same hostile tone, he called, “Stiles, brush your teeth, then go to your room and stay there until the morning. Now.”

It was the same order he’d given at the end of the first week Stiles lived with him, almost a month ago.Stiles did as he was told, got ready for bed then went to his room and closed the door. It was far too early to go to sleep, so he watched videos and played games on his phone.

He never heard Peter at the door, but when he got up a few hours later to check, his door was locked from the outside just like before. He tried to listen at the door, tried to peek under the crack at the bottom. No sign of Peter. He thought about trying to fuck with the lock to get the door open, but decided that wasn’t worth the risk.

His bedroom window overlooked the side yard, where a buffer of a narrow line of trees provided a barrier between Peter’s house and the neighbor’s. Stiles could only just make out the edge of the driveway, illuminated by the full moon, but he couldn’t tell if the car was still parked there.

In the distance, he heard howling. Coyotes, he supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional warnings this chapter! (Shocking, right?? It's short - I didn't have space to make trouble)


	10. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles snoops around and gets more than he bargained for.

The next morning, Peter was gone before he woke up. His chore list started with,

_Go for a run (you’re putting on weight)_

Stiles stared down at it and blew out a breath. “Harsh,” he muttered.

A pair of running shoes in his size were on the counter next to the list. Stiles put them on and got that out of the way first, then showered before digging into the rest of the list.

The rest of his daily tasks were fairly commonplace, nothing too strenuous. Third was,

_Dusting_

And Stiles decided to take a liberal stance on the order and dust Peter’s office. He hadn’t been in there since the first time he’d gone in to vacuum. Once he’d been in there, he had decided Peter hadn’t meant for him to go in, and Stiles didn’t want to risk the man’s wrath. In any case, Peter hadn’t complained about it not being cleaned.

He could have gone in and just snooped outright, no pretense of being in there to dust. It wasn’t like he wanted Peter to know in either case, not like the man _would_ know. Still, it made Stiles feel a bit more justified to have the cover story.

Stiles didn’t do much dusting once he got in there.

He went back to those books, flipping through _Druidic Magicks_ and finding a lot of old English and odd pictures of naked people holding orbs under the moon. Most of the language went over his head, but the gist of it was that this was some sort of actual magic book. Which was obviously insane.

_The New Cryptology_ had even more incomprehensible language, this of the hyper-scientific variety. But there were pictures of monsters, gruesome images of humans transforming into creatures. The well-worn spine opened it to a section on werewolves of all things, and Stiles glanced through the entry.

_Except for the alpha werewolf, which has red irises, the iris pigmentation of the shifted werewolf varies not by genetic anomaly, as was previously presumed, or even by social ranking within the pack._

Seriously, what the fuck?

That was when Stiles forgot about his feather duster and really went into sleuth mode, poking through desk drawers and trying to find any other hints as to, well, _what the fuck?_ He found a lot of pens and stationary, an address book, some finance documents, some class rosters from the university. A lot of data-y looking things that he assumed were from the various psychology research projects Peter was always droning on about.

One of the larger drawers wasn’t deep enough for its size. That was, the bottom of it fell about two inches higher than it should have. Stiles felt around it, noticing a split in the wood around that same point. He closed the drawer, then fiddled with the handle. It twisted sideways and something clicked.

The bottom part of the drawer didn’t have a handle, and Stiles had to use a letter opener at the side of it to pry it out from the desk. Inside were several containers. The first was a wooden box with six bullets inside. The next was a metal tin filled with some sort of powder. The next box contained a bag of dried purple flowers.

Just as Stiles was starting to form a theory in his mind, he heard the garage door slam downstairs.

Fuck.

He scrambled as quietly as he could manage, sliding the drawer shut and twisting the handle. He grabbed the duster and scooted out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him. He started down the stairs just as Peter was coming up the hallway alongside them.

Stiles leaned on the banister. “Hey, Daddy,” he said sweetly. “You miss me that bad today?” It wasn’t even noon, and Peter usually worked until at least five.

Peter looked tense, his expression neutral but carefully so. He started up the stairs toward Stiles, catching him around the waist and hauling him up and over his shoulder in a fireman carry without warning. Stiles yelped and held on as best he could as Peter patted his ass through his sweatpants. “Since you’ve been such a good boy, you deserve a treat,” he said, voice rough and sharper than normal. He carried Stiles into the bedroom, closed the door behind them, then dropped Stiles onto his feet. Peter grabbed his face roughly and crushed their lips together in a kiss that was far from affectionate. It was dominating, aggressive, all teeth and bruising force.

Something wasn’t right. Stiles kissed back, but it was hesitant, more receptive than anything. Once they parted, he looked up at Peter, chewing on his bleeding lip. “Daddy, is something wrong? Did I do something?” He didn’t think he’d done anything Peter would know about.

Peter closed his eyes like he was trying to calm himself. “I don’t know. Did you?” he asked. He stepped closer, invading Stiles’s space. “You’ve been a good boy, haven’t you?”

Fuck. Again, like he had so many times before, Stiles felt like they were playing a game and Peter was the only one that knew the rules. He shook his head quickly. “I’ve been good, Daddy,” he insisted quickly. There was no way Peter knew about the office, right?

Peter grabbed his face roughly and studied him for a moment before shoving him back onto the bed on his back. He grabbed one of Stiles’s wrists and bound it with the restraint at the top of the bed, then did the same to the other. “Tell me what a good boy you’ve been,” he said, starting to unbutton his shirt. “Tell Daddy why you deserve to come.” He undid his tie, leaving it hanging loose with his shirt open.

Being tied up was supposed to be sexy, damn it. But this whole air of uncertainty hanging around him just made it anxiety-inducing. He tested the strength of the ties and wriggled uncertainly. “Daddy, I was good. I do all my chores. I do all my homework.”

Kneeling on the bed, Peter shoved his head to the side, leaning in and pressing his face into Stiles’s neck. It wasn’t nuzzling, per se, though that was the only word Stiles could come up with to describe it. Nuzzling was affectionate. This was animal, aggressive. Peter bit his neck hard. “You do know how I feel about my rules,” he said.

Peter started to kiss his way down Stiles’s body in that same manner, sucking hickeys and biting as much as he kissed. His teeth caught hard on Stiles’s nipple, making him gasp. His mouth counted every rib, then his tongue dipped into the boy’s bellybutton.

Stiles could do very little but lay there and wriggle underneath the man, gasping and even laughing when he hit a ticklish part. But the effect of the position and Peter’s words didn’t escape him. This was dominating, predatory, and it may very well be about him going into the office. “Um, what rules are you thinking of?” Stiles asked nervously.

Teeth sank into the meat of his thigh, bruising. Stiles yelped and jerked, trying to wriggle up the bed, but Peter held him by the calves. Peter yanked his sweats and boxers down in one harsh movement, then leaned in to nuzzle Stiles’s hip. “You’ve been in my office,” he said.

It felt like a block of ice had fallen into his stomach. “I’m sorry, I didn’t – I just thought – hah!”

Peter had sucked two fingers into his mouth, then abruptly shoved them into him with no hesitation on the first shove. They’d had sex the night before, so it wasn’t intolerable, and Peter worked them in slowly after that, his other hand wrapping around Stiles’s cock.

Stiles didn’t know what to make of this. Peter was making him feel good. He was scolding him and making him feel good. He didn’t understand it, and he sure as hell didn’t trust it. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he said. “I just went in to clean. I didn’t know if you wanted me to clean in there.” He was starting to get hard in Peter’s hand and looked down to see a positively ferocious look on the man’s face. “You feel so good, Daddy,” he breathed, trying for placating.

Peter’s fingers curled against his prostate. Stiles whined and spread his legs wider, thrusting up into Peter’s hand and squeezing his eyes shut. “I’ve been watching you,” he said, voice a growl. “I saw you sneaking around in there. What was my one rule, you fucking slut?” His fingers spread.

There must be a camera or something. A fucking nanny cam. “No going in the office,” he answered.

“And you fucking lied to me about it? Going in to clean,” He spat the words back at Stiles with disdain. “What have I told you about lying to me?”

“I’m sorry I lied,” Stiles said quickly. Peter squeezed his cock. “I – ah! Daddy. I’m sorry. Please, I’m so close,” he said. It hadn’t taken long to get him there, the adrenaline helping things along.

Peter let go of his cock and pulled his fingers out abruptly, which wasn’t much of a shock. When Stiles opened his eyes, he was smiling, shaking his head. He got up and grabbed Stiles by the ankle, cuffing that to the bottom of the bed, then the other. It left him spread out in an X across the bed. Peter ran his hand over the bottom of Stiles’s foot, then went toward his closet.

Fuck, nothing good came out of there.

When he came back into the room, Peter had the cane in his hand, and Stiles felt himself start to shake. With the way he was tied down, on his back, he wasn’t in for a spanking, and he didn’t know what that meant for this. Peter stopped at the foot of the bed, twirling the cane in his fingers. “You’ll learn,” he said. “You’ll learn to follow my rules.”

The cane came down on the bottom of Stiles’s right foot, then the left. There was no way to brace himself for a blow like that, and Stiles shrieked, jerking but unable to move away. “Fuck! Ow! No, please!” he yelped.

“No?” Peter echoed, and he hit his feet again. Stiles made a sound like a kicked dog. His hard-on was going down quickly, but Peter leaned forward over the bed and wrapped his lips around it. Stiles felt the burn of tears in his eyes, realizing this was nowhere near over. The pleasure felt horribly wrong, mixed in with the sharp discomfort.

“Daddy, please, I can’t – I’m sorry,” he whined. Stiles wasn’t even sure what it was he couldn’t do. He could sure as hell get hard again, apparently. Peter pulled off his cock and started to suck on his balls, running his tongue over his taint then below, where he could just barely reach Stiles’s hole.

Stiles was fucking scared. There was a fuck ton of pain ahead of him. He was sure of it. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’m sorry. Please,” he begged.

Peter muttered, “Shut up,” and took Stiles’s cock into his mouth again briefly before standing up. “Stop apologizing. I don’t want to hear you,” he snapped. He picked up the cane again, teasing the end against the bottoms of Stiles’s feet, then pulled it back and smacked it against them again.

Tears slipped from the corners of Stiles’s eyes, down his temples. He bit his lip to keep from screaming again. Peter didn’t want to hear apologies, but it was all Stiles could think of. He needed to say _something_ to calm the man down. “You’ll be good? Hmm? Why? Because you’re being punished? I want you to be good. All. The. Time.” He brought the cane down three times in quick succession, punctuating each word with it. Stiles’s erection wilted again. “Tell me what you did wrong.”

“I went in your office without permission,” he answered, voice trembling.

“And you lied to me,” Peter added.

Stiles watched Peter’s face. The unbridled pleasure and rage he found there scared him, but it was nothing compared to the fear he felt when he saw Peter’s eyes flash red.

_Except for the alpha werewolf, which has red irises…_

What in the unholy fuck had he gotten himself into?

“Please. Please untie me,” he said, panicked. “I want you to untie me, please. You’re scaring me.” It was a gamble. Stiles knew that if Peter didn’t listen, this would all feel so much worse. No pretending this was rough sex gone wrong.

The cane came down again and again, until his feet felt like he’d stepped on a stove. He couldn’t help the noises he made then.

Stiles should have known better than to ask. Of course Peter didn’t care that he was upset, that he was scared and in pain. Peter was a motherfucking werewolf. A monster.

Peter came around the bed and grabbed him by the hair, forcing Stiles to look up at him. His eyes were human. Or looked human, anyway. “When I’m done with you, you’ll remember my rules. Every time you even think about disobeying me, you’ll think of this.” When he released his grip, Stiles’s head fell to the side and he saw that Peter was hard in his slacks, tenting the fabric.

Trembling, Stiles nodded. “Okay. Okay, Daddy. Please, I said I’ll be good. I promise.”

Peter walked back to the closet, and Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, feeling more tears slip down his temples. Stiles didn’t want to know what was coming.He heard the man return, then felt his fingers sliding lightly over the bottoms of Stiles’s feet, which had to be bleeding. He whimpered and held himself as still as he could.

“Here’s the reality, honey,” Peter told him. “You’re here to make me happy. To make my life easier. And I reward you. I take care of you. You live in my house. I feed you. I make you come when you deserve it. But when you break my rules? I’m not happy. When you break my rules, you’re an inconvenience to me. If I ever catch you in that office without permission again...”

He trailed off, and Stiles heard him moving around the side of the bed. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t go in there again. I’ll do whatever you want, I swear.”

The bed shifted as Peter knelt between his legs again, and Stiles felt something slide into him, too fast. Stiles grimaced. It didn’t feel familiar. Something they hadn’t used before. It felt like a plug, not too big. “What do you want me to do, Daddy?” he asked.

“I want you to remember what it’s like not to have structure. Not to have someone telling you what your limits are.” The plug sprang to life with vibrations, and Stiles jerked, eyes opening. It was pressed snugly against his prostate.

Stiles looked down at Peter, and the man had a gleeful but dangerous expression on his face. He got up, then walked to his dresser. He started to get changed at a leisurely pace while Stiles panted on the bed. His cock was getting hard again, and he found himself rolling his hips, trying to get more pressure. Peter changed into sweats and a t-shirt, then headed for the en suite bathroom. He fucking brushed his teeth, and by the time he was done flossing, Stiles was leaking onto his stomach and he’d broken out in a sweat. His feet still ached, but the feeling was overwhelmed by the vibrations.

He expected Peter to turn the thing off before he could come. That had been the game so far. Get him close, then hurt him. But Stiles knew better than to come without permission. “Daddy, I’m gonna come. Can I come?” he gasped.

Peter looked up at him like he’d forgotten he was even there, though he was still hard in his sweats. He hummed and walked to the edge of the bed. He pressed two fingers into Stiles’s mouth. “Come for me, honey,” he said, sounding almost sweet. He barely brushed his other hand over Stiles’s cock.

As Stiles came, shaking apart, the man pulled his hand away and slapped him across the face. A whimper left Stiles that he would have felt truly ashamed of if he’d had any capacity for it. He looked up at Peter, then down at himself. The toy was still buzzing, and it felt odd. The stimulation to his prostate made it so his cock kept dribbling, though the orgasm had passed. It was quickly becoming uncomfortable. Stiles shifted and was able to relieve some of the pressure, enough that maybe he’d be able to go soft. He looked back up at Peter. “Thank you, Daddy,” he whispered, hoping for an ounce of mercy.

Peter stroked the back of his hand over Stiles’s cheek. “You don’t have to ask for the next one,” he told Stiles, and that was all the warning he got before Peter pulled a remote from his pocket and the vibrations became suddenly stronger.

Stiles made a strangled noise, hips jerking in a futile attempt to pull away. “It’s too soon,” he panted, “It’s too soon.” Peter walked back to the end of the bed. He leaned forward and pressed on the base of the plug, pressing it harder into Stiles’s prostate. Stiles cried out, toes curling as he felt himself approaching the edge again. Fuck, he hadn’t even gotten soft.

The second orgasm was animalistic. Stiles bit his lip and growled against the pleasure, eyes rolling back and back arching. The first half of the orgasm was all pleasure, but the second he started to come down, only to find the toy still firmly planted against his prostate, Stiles choked on something like a sob. “God, god, please, too much,” he gasped.

Peter stopped pressing, but the toy stayed on as he moved around and gathered some come off Stiles’s belly. He smeared it over Stiles’s mouth, then pressed his fingers into it. Stiles shook his head in mindless protest. “You’re not done yet, honey,” Peter told him.

Stiles didn’t see him take out the remote this time, but the vibrations intensified again. They were nothing but pain for a moment, but his dick wasn’t getting the memo. When Peter wrapped his hand around it, it ached. “Come for me, honey. Since you don’t think you need any limits. Let’s have another one.” Stiles was sure that he couldn’t right up to the moment it overtook him. There was very little pleasure about it. He barely gave a dribble of come, and tears were slipping down into his hair again. “Daddy,” he whimpered.

The vibrations decreased abruptly, but didn’t stop. For a second, Stiles thought lowering the intensity was mercy. God, why did he keep thinking stupid things like that? Because in the next second, he was sure that if he came a fourth time, he’d pass out. And as painful as another orgasm sounded, passing out sounded fucking fantastic.

Peter sat on the bed next to him, setting the remote on the nightstand. He was still obviously hard, but he paid it no mind, a hand casually resting over the bulge. “You’ll learn,” he said softly, and petted Stiles’s hair. Then he got up and walked out of the room.

The vibrations were low and steady, not enough to come again, but too much to let him relax. His cock managed to go half soft, though it was still sort of… on alert. Maybe he just couldn’t get all the way there anymore. Peter stayed gone for a long, long time. Stiles lay there, crying and shaking and praying for relief. He heard the stereo turn on downstairs, but couldn’t hear exactly what was playing. How long could the man leave him like this?

An eternity later, Peter came back in. Stiles didn’t even notice at first, too exhausted and overwhelmed, his eyes closed. But he felt the bed dip, and looked down to see Peter between his legs. He took the plug out and turned it off, setting it aside. Stiles panted with relief, body trembling with overexertion.

Peter slipped his hands up Stiles’s thighs, then moved over him, looming above with hands braced on either side of his torso. He grinned down at Stiles like they had just shared some hilarious private joke. Then he moved down and untied both of his ankles. Stiles didn’t even let himself consider that this might be over, sure the disappointment would kill him. And he was right. Peter hooked his hands under Stiles’s knees and pushed them up before bending down and pressing his tongue against Stiles’s hole, slipping it inside.

Stiles’s head thrashed from side to side, but he didn’t dare tell Peter to stop aloud.

Peter pulled back quickly enough, only to shove his own sweats down and press his cock into Stiles without warning. His body gave no resistance. Stiles had felt used often enough in his life, had lain there and taken it while strange men used him as some sort of faceless hole. It felt like one of those times. He stayed limp, twitching weakly every time Peter’s cock so much as nudged his prostate. Tears still leaked down his temples.

Leaning forward, Peter pressed his mouth to the side of Stiles’s throat, teeth grazing. For the first time, Stiles worried about those teeth. Peter had bit him before, but he didn’t know if the man had ever broken the skin. Did Stiles need to worry about that? About being turned?

Peter was intentionally angling for his prostate, Stiles was sure now. A hand wrapped around his throat, and lips pressed against his lips. “You ever disobey me again and this will seem like a reward,” Peter breathed. He wrapped his hand around Stiles’s cock, which was still half hard and oversensitive.

The closer Stiles got to that fourth orgasm, the more he felt like he pass out before he even got there. His eyes were unfocused, face red and hair soaked with sweat. “Okay, okay,” he mumbled, though it wasn’t clear if he actually understood what they were talking about anymore. His toes curled, but the pain from the bottoms of his feet managed to wake him up and bring him back from the edge at the same time. The thrusts were relentless, though, and the orgasm was ruthless and inevitable and utterly unpleasant. His cock barely dribbled as it happened. And, as he’d predicted, his mind went black.

When he came to, Peter was in the bathroom, cleaning himself up with a washcloth. Stiles could feel the come dribbling out of him. His wrists had been released. He pulled them sluggishly against his chest, too tired to even massage the feeling back into them.

Peter came toward him, wiped him with the same washcloth, then scooped him up into his arms. He fell asleep before they even got to his bedroom and didn’t wake until late in the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: body shaming; spying; abuse; violence; non-consensual sexual touching; bondage/restraint; spanking/caning; rape; forced orgasm
> 
> This chapter is rough, so sorry about any awful emotions you might experience.


	11. Episode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Peter's abuse, Stiles starts to break down.

Peter Hale was a werewolf. Stiles knew this, but he had no idea what to do with the information

So instead of doing anything, he hobbled around on cut-up feet, doing whatever Peter asked the second he asked it. What was he going to do, leave? He could hardly walk.

Peter hadn’t been allowing him to wear clothes either. Stiles hadn’t been modest in a very long time, hadn’t been allowed to feel like his body was his own since before puberty. But he felt pathetic, scared, ashamed. He wanted to crawl into a hole and hide.

Peter had been standoffish at best, snappish at worst. But Stiles had been behaving himself, and he hadn’t been punished again.

Two weeks after the caning, Peter came into his room in the middle of the night and woke him up with two fingers in his ass, quickly followed by his cock. Stiles had frozen, the whole sequence of events calling up memories best not called. He didn’t move or speak, and Peter simply grunted softly above him, came, then left.

Stiles fell into a restless sleep for less than two hours, a familiar nightmare tearing through his mind and waking him in a panicked rush of breath, heart thudding erratically in his chest. He trembled for a moment, sucking in shallow gasps and wiping at the tears on his face. Stiles sat up and glanced around his dark bedroom, only the ambient light from the street allowing him to see anything.

His hand came down onto something wet. The bed. He’d pissed the fucking bed.

Peter was going to be furious.

Still not totally awake, not totally out of the dream, he scrambled out of bed and started stripping the sheets off as fast as he could, pillows thumping onto the floor. He balled them up, not even sure what he’d do with them. His breaths kept coming, short and fast, hyperventilation pretty much inevitable.

The door opened, and Peter stood silhouetted in the light of the hallway. “What are you doing?”

His hands were shaking, fear churning in his stomach. For a moment, he honestly expected to see his old foster father standing there. In any case, he didn’t really seem to see Peter. He was somewhere else.

“Stiles?” Peter said softly, stepping into the room and reaching for him.

His hand wrapped around Stiles’s bicep, and Stiles jerked away, crying, “I didn’t mean to!” He held the sheets against himself, standing there naked, sucking in short, hiccuping breaths. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and he still had the red marks from his pillow on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

Peter took a step back and studied him. “Stiles, calm down,” he said softly. “Honey, it’s okay.” His nostrils flared, and Stiles wondered if he could smell the piss. That was a thing, right? Werewolves could smell better? “Tell me what happened,” he urged softly. “It’s okay.”

Stiles held on firmly as Peter started to tug the sheets away from him, but after a few tugs, he gave up his death grip. Stiles stumbled back and looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. His breaths seemed to be leveling out somewhat, but there was still an edge, an alertness that was definitely not toward the actual world around him, that threatened to take him into a panic again. “It just happened. I was sleeping,” he mumbled, face red.

“Stiles, look at me, honey,” Peter said, setting the sheets aside in a pile at the foot of the bed. He opened his arms but didn’t reach for him. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

There was a moment of clear mistrust on Stiles’s face. He was working hard to separate out reality and memory, but part of him couldn’t understand why he wasn’t being hit. He’d had his fair share of panic attacks before, but he hadn’t pissed the bed since he was ten years old in a group home after leaving Robert’s house. This was completely alien.

Slowly, he stepped into Peter’s outstretched arms, then leaned his head against the man’s chest. Peter’s arms wrapped around him, hugging him tight. Like a string had been cut, the uneven breathing started again, but this time he was clinging to Peter, the breaths more like sobs as he let himself start to come down from the panic. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time more about his reaction than the bed wetting.

“I said it was okay, Stiles. I’m not mad at you, honey.” He petted the back of Stiles’s head.

At this point, the crying was just a matter of trying to get it out of his system. Stiles’s shoulders shook as he cried and hiccuped into Peter’s shirt. It was coming down from a panic attack, but it was more than that. It was like he’d been held up in that sub space for two weeks, just waiting for the aftercare, whenever it would come.

“I’ve pushed you too far,” Peter sighed. “I’m so sorry.” He kissed the top of Stiles’s head.

“I thought you were… I didn’t...” Stiles turned his face so his forehead was pressed to Peter’s shoulder. “I thought I was somewhere else,” he admitted quietly.

“Who did you think I was, Stiles?” he asked softly. Peter shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, well away from the wet spot, and pulled Stiles into his lap.

Stiles curled up against him, his gangly legs draped over the man’s lap. “I thought you were my foster dad,” he said, nearly a whisper. “The one that…” He sucked in an unsteady breath. “He used to come into my room in the night like that. While I was pretending to be asleep.”

“And when I came in, you thought you were back there?”

Stiles shook his head in short, jerking motions. “Not at first. But I had a dream after, and then...”

Peter shushed him, rubbing his back and kissing his forehead. He pressed his hand to the left side of Stiles’s chest. “You had a panic attack. Do you know what that is? Have you had them before?”

“Yeah,” Stiles admitted. “I used to get them a lot. I got them first after my mom died, I think.” He took a slow, deep breath, closing his eyes and allowing himself to absorb all of the affection and attention Peter would offer him. It felt like he was starving for every touch. Peter was safe. Peter would take care of him. Stiles felt sure of it in that moment.

“I might have something that will help you calm down,” Peter told him softly. “It’ll settle you. Help with your breathing. Would you like that, honey?” He kissed Stiles on the tip of his nose. “Anything you want, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded without opening his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He just wanted to feel normal again, feel like he wasn’t a second from being a scared child again. Stiles turned against the man and wrapped his arms around his neck, pressing his face into the side of it. Peter’s arms wrapped tightly around his middle in return. “I love you,” Stiles mumbled into Peter’s skin, and he meant it. He was sure of it. This had to be what love felt like.

“I love you, too, Stiles,” Peter answered immediately.

Later, if Stiles had to pinpoint a moment where he was totally lost in this, it would be this one. Peter loved him, and he was going to keep him safe, and it was everything Stiles thought he needed.

Peter went on. “You know, sometimes I have to be hard on you, but Stiles, I do love you. I’m going to help you, honey. Do you think you’ll be okay if I leave you for a moment? Just to my office. I will be right back. Will you be okay?”

Stiles shifted off his lap slowly, nodding and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I’m gonna get something to clean the mattress.”

Once Peter got up, Stiles turned on the lamp on his nightstand, gathered the sheets, and carried them down to the laundry room. He got the handheld carpet cleaner and brought it upstairs. He was using it on the mattress when Peter returned with a bottle of water and two little yellow pills.

Peter waited until Stiles was finished sucking up the last of the moisture before stepping forward to offer them. “Here, take these.” Stiles took them without question, downing the pills quickly, then sitting on the edge of the mattress. He rubbed his hands over the tops of his thighs anxiously. “Should they work pretty quick?” he asked.

“Very quickly,” Peter assured him, then held out a hand. “Why don’t you come lie in my bed?” He pulled Stiles to his feet, then reeled him in and kissed him gently before leading him down the hall.

Stiles knew he was getting special treatment. Because of the panic attack – or maybe because of the ‘I love you’s exchanged. Stiles preferred that possibility. He bit his lip and smiled as Peter climbed into bed and tugged Stiles in with him. He snuggled in close, letting out a soft breath. “I’m so glad I found you,” Stiles whispered. “Or I guess you found me.” As the drugs kicked in, Stiles found himself thinking back to the day he’d met Peter. He’d felt relaxed like this, but all mixed up in a hangover and a sore ass. Maybe they’d given him something similar. He remembered liking what they’d given him.

Peter stroked his hair. “You’re so special, you know that?” he murmured. “I’m going to keep you forever.” He tipped Stiles’s face up and kissed him, slipping his tongue into Stiles’s mouth.

The drugs were kicking in quickly, as promised, and he felt his muscles start to give, go soft. “Can I tell you something?” Stiles asked.

“Of course, honey.”

Stiles looked up at him, tracing a finger along Peter’s eyebrow. “I know what you are. I know.”

He was too foggy to notice the surprise that crossed Peter’s face. “And what’s that?”

“Alpha werewolf,” Stiles said, hushed. “I – when I was in your office – I’m sorry. I know I wasn’t supposed to, and I read this book, and it said about your eyes...”

Peter grabbed his wrist and pulled Stiles’s hand away from his face. “Do you know what that means?” he asked carefully, watching his expression.

Stiles shook his head. “Do you… you locked me in my room. On the full moon. Do you turn into a wolf?” he asked.

There was a long moment of hesitation. “It’s more complicated than that. In any case, there’s no point in you knowing about it,” Peter said, a little more firmly than he’d been speaking before.

Stiles deflated a little and looked down. “I’m sorry I went in there,” he lamented, and he really did feel that way now. He wanted badly to be whatever Peter wanted him to be. Rubbing a hand over Peter’s chest, a little mesmerized by the feeling, Stiles murmured, “Do you still love me when I fuck up?”

“I love you always,” Peter told him, and his own hands were trailing over Stiles’s chest, his hip. “It hurts me to punish you, Stiles. I won’t whip you like that again unless you deserve it, you know. And I don’t see that happening.” His hand slid lower, touching the base of Stiles’s soft cock.

He may as well have said, _I won’t hurt you – unless I want to_, but Stiles was wrapped up in good feelings, between the affection and the drugs.

Stiles hummed softly at Peter’s touch, rolling so he was on his back next to the man, exposing himself so he could touch wherever he liked. “I think it’s working,” he said, speech sluggish. “The pills.”

Peter’s hand moved from his cock to his thighs, spreading them. He moved over Stiles and kissed his collarbone, then his sternum, moving lower. Every little touch seemed to take Stiles by surprise, his reactions so delayed that by the time he registered one touch, the other had already started. “They’re meant to work quickly. Do you feel more relaxed?” He dipped his tongue into Stiles’s bellybutton.

Stiles gasped and hummed, watching with blown pupils. “Yeah, I… yeah,” he agreed.

“Tell me how you feel,” Peter instructed.

“I feel like… I dunno, like everything kinda let go? Like, kinda slow, but… good. I feel good,” he explained. Reaching down, he ran a hand through Peter’s hair. Normally, he wouldn’t be so bold, but it was more that he just wanted to know how it felt right now.

Peter sat up, but his hands kept wandering. “You’re beautiful, Stiles.”

“I feel better now,” Stiles told him. “Thank you.”

“Good, good, that’s perfect,” Peter told him. “They’re working.”

Stiles sort of lost the plot at that point. In a moment, Peter was pressed against him, murmuring in his ear, “I want to make love to you,” and Stiles was wrapping his legs around the man’s waist. In another, Peter was inside him, but Stiles didn’t remember any of how they got there. It felt good in a vague, disconnected sort of way. Nothing felt bad. He’d gotten hard, and he didn’t remember that either. They were close, so close, pressed chest to chest and kissing. The kissing felt good, but Stiles didn’t think he was doing a great job at it. He came, but he felt apart from himself when it happened. Stiles was talking, but he didn’t know what he was saying. And Peter was saying things back, and he didn’t really get that either.

Then Peter was wiping him down with a washcloth, between his legs and over his stomach. “You get some sleep. I’m going to work from home today,” he said, and Stiles felt like he was hearing it from under water. “Would you like pancakes when you wake up? Anything you want, honey, just ask.”

It was oddly parental, the way Peter was looking down at him, fawning over him. It should have set off red flags galore. How many times had he done exactly this with Robert, gotten fucked then lay there as the man petted his hair? Instead, it just made him feel safe, peaceful. He smiled and closed his eyes. “Pancakes sounds good,” he mumbled. “You make good pancakes.”

Peter rarely cooked for him, but he’d made Stiles pancakes once before. He couldn’t remember when. “I’m just gonna sleep a little more,” Stiles promised, a yawn swallowing the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Aftermath of abuse; controlling behavior; sub-space; panic attacks; traumatic bed-wetting; traumatic regression; non-consensual somnophilia; drugged sex


	12. Elaboration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles talk about the werewolf thing.

Stiles ended up sleeping until nearly two in the afternoon, his head foggy and sluggish as he crawled out of bed. Peter had left a small pile of clothes on the end of the bed. A t-shirt and sweats. It felt like a peace offering after the two weeks he’d spent hobbling around, naked and nervous.

He shuffled into the bathroom first for a quick shower, rinsing off the remaining traces of that morning’s fuck while he sifted through what he remembered. They’d finally talked about the werewolf thing, but Stiles either hadn’t gotten any more information or didn’t remember it.

By the time he got downstairs, his head had cleared up a little bit. He found Peter in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl of pancake mix. Stiles smiled softly, leaning against the doorway.

“You could hear me get up, right?” he asked.

Peter looked over at Stiles and pressed his lips into a thin line. “I have better hearing than a human, yes,” he answered after a moment.

“And your other senses?” Stiles asked.

Taking an audible sniff of the air, Peter turned back to stirring the pancake batter. “You used the bar soap instead of the shower gel,” he said.

Stiles walked over to the stove, and Peter passed him the butter to grease the frying pan, the instructions unspoken. “We’ll skip your medication today or you’ll be up all night,” Peter told him. “You should have a day off from studying anyway.” Peter stirred the batter and didn’t look up at him. “I had a friend write you a prescription for another medication, too. It should help with the nightmares. You can start that tonight.”

Huffing out a little breath, Stiles nodded. “Thanks.”

Peter turned toward him with the batter bowl in hand and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “Go sit down. I’m cooking, I told you.”

Stiles walked over to the kitchen table, bringing a couple of plates and silverware with him.

“We’ll let you settle into that for a bit – I know you’re still adjusting to the ADHD medication – and then we’ll see about adding in something for the anxiety during the day if you need it.”

“Like what you gave me this morning?” Stiles asked, wary. He’d needed it this morning, but that drug had knocked him on his ass.

Peter smirked and looked over his shoulder at him. “Something a bit tamer. What you had this morning was an emergency sedative.”

Right. Because it had been an emergency. Because Stiles had pissed the bed and thought he was a fucking eight-year-old child. He flushed and looked down at the table. The room fell silent except for the sound of pancakes sizzling on the pan, flipping, sliding onto a plate. Batter pouring. Repeat.

Once they were done, Peter came over to the table with the stack, the butter dish, and the syrup. “So why don’t we talk about the werewolf thing,” he suggested as he sat down.

Stiles was surprised that Peter was the one to bring it up, lifting his head and raising his eyebrows. “You mean, like… can I ask questions about it?”

Peter snorted. “I think I’ll spare us both the laundry list of horror movie tropes you’re going to rattle off. Why don’t I just tell you what you need to know?”

He put pancakes on Stiles’s plate, then took some for himself. “We can turn any time of month, but the full moon makes us stronger, brings our wolf side to the surface and makes us more dangerous. That’s why I’ve been sending you to your room during that time.”

Stiles doused his pancakes in syrup and started eating, but he kept his eyes fixed on Peter as he spoke.

“There are two ways to become a werewolf: either you’re born that way or you get bitten by an alpha. A werewolf like me. Alphas are the most powerful. We’re leaders of other werewolves, can command them. Every pack needs an alpha, but every alpha doesn’t need a pack. I have a few relatives that live in my territory, but I leave them to their own devices, for the most part.” Peter waved a careless hand.

Stiles wanted to ask if Derek, the man that had dropped by unannounced, was one of those.

“If I were to decide to make a pack, all I would need to do is find some suitable humans and bite them while in my wolf form. Like I told you last night, I don’t become an actual wolf like you would see in nature. It’s wolf-like, though. Anyway, once I bit a human, he would become a werewolf, bound to me, as his alpha. He would obey me, submit to me. We would be tied forever.”

Peter’s eyes were fixed intently on Stiles’s, flashing the same red they had the night Peter caned his feet. It was a threat, Stiles realized with a start. Peter could bite him, and Stiles would never be able to leave, even if he wanted to. He wouldn’t be able to disobey.

“Does that make you nervous?” Peter asked.

“Hm?” Stiles said, shoving a piece of pancake in his mouth.

“Your heart is racing.”

Stiles choked a little, then forced himself to swallow. “You can hear my heart?”

Peter smiled at him. “It skips a beat when you’re lying, you know.”

No lying. No disobeying. No leaving. “Would you…?”

“Turn you?” Peter hummed, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “Would you want me to?”

Stiles shook his head quickly.

“Well, then, of course not,” Peter assured him. Stiles felt himself start to relax for just a moment before Peter added, “Not as long as things stay good between us, as long as you’re a good boy for me.”

His throat felt dry, and Stiles realized he hadn’t brought any water to the table. “So if…?” he ventured.

Peter leaned forward, arms folded on the table in front of him. He hadn’t taken so much as a bite of his food yet. He peered at Stiles, studied him. “I love you, Stiles. I wouldn’t let you go for anything.”

Stiles felt the warmth of the sentiment alongside the uneasiness of the threat, and the discord of the two made his stomach clench uncomfortably. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

With a broad smile, Peter sat back and picked up his fork. “Well, then. We won’t have a problem.” And he dug into his pancakes as Stiles slowed to little more than picking at his own. “Mm,” Peter said between bites. “I didn’t bother making you a chores list today, but the laundry is stacking up a bit.”

“I’ll do it,” Stiles agreed quickly, nodding. “As soon as we’re done eating.”

“Such a sweetheart,” Peter praised. “I was thinking, maybe once we’ve got your medications settled, we should have a day out. Go hiking or something. Would you like that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good,” Stiles said. “Whatever you like.”

“Let’s just get the meds settled first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: None beyond those in the tags
> 
> Next chapter we'll get our first real appearance from Derek!


	13. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has trouble adjusting to his new medication and finally meets Derek.

It took a full week for him to get over the side-effects of the medication for his nightmares. A week of oversleeping and waking up confused and irritable for no discernible reason. Thankfully, Peter had been at work by the time he woke up most of the week, but Saturday, he’d woken up to Peter looming over his bed.

“Are you still asleep?”

Head foggy and heart thudding a little too fast, Stiles had groaned and dragged his pillow over his head. “What?” he whined.

“Stiles, it’s ten o’clock.”

He slowly got his thoughts together, though all he wanted to do was doze off again. “What do you think? You’re the one that gave me the fucking coma drugs,” Stiles snapped.

It was a mistake. Peter had yanked him out of bed by his ankle so that Stiles landed in a heap on the floor, then slapped him across the face. “Get up,” he snapped. “In my room. Now.”

Stiles whined again, a hand clasped to his stinging cheek. He managed to drag himself to his feet, though now it was the dread weighting him down. In Peter’s room, the werewolf stood in front of him with the cane in his hands and said, “You’re getting three. Where do you want them?”

“Daddy,” Stiles tried to plead.

“Tell me where you want them or you’ll get five.”

Stiles opened his mouth, then shut it, staring at the cane and feeling a lump form in his throat. How fucking pathetic was that, him ready to cry before Peter even hit him? “My back,” Stiles decided.

* * *

  
  


After that, Peter started giving him the nighttime meds earlier, and Stiles was expected to be awake at seven o’clock to make breakfast before Peter left for work. The side effects started to level out within a few days of that caning, and that’s when Peter added the daytime anxiety meds.

“They shouldn’t have as much effect as the others,” he’d assured Stiles, “because you’re taking them with the ADHD medication, which is a stimulant.” But the first day he’d been dizzy and nodding off here and there, and the second wasn’t going much better.

Stiles woke and pushed himself up slowly onto his forearms, blinking down at the textbook he’d dozed off on. There was a bit of drool on Cotton Mathers’s face. “Sorry, bro,” he mumbled as he wiped it off. God, his head felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, and he could feel a soft throbbing at his temple.

He needed to get his shit together. Stiles sat up and scrubbed at his face. Step one: stop studying on his bed. That was obviously a one-way ticket to Nap Town. And maybe some water would perk him up a bit. Stiles’s throat felt like he’d been breathing through his mouth in his sleep, raw and dry. He cracked his neck, then headed out of his room and down the stairs. He was halfway down before he registered the sound of voices in the living room.

Stiles froze, hand on the banister, looking across the entryway. Peter sat languidly sprawled across half the couch, legs in a wide stance and one elbow perched on the arm of the couch. His posture said, ‘I’m too important to sit up for this conversation.’ In the armchair across from him sat a dark-haired young man with close-cropped facial hair, a bit more than stubble, a strong jaw and broad, heavily muscled shoulders. He sat leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his thick eyebrows pinched in concentration. He had a black leather jacket folded in his lap.

They both turned and looked at him, Peter curling his lip in irritation that made Stiles want to flee back to his room. The stranger stood. “Who’s this?” he asked, the question directed at Peter though his eyes never left Stiles.

“He’s been doing some work around the house for me,” Peter said quickly, tone smooth and not inviting disagreements from either of them.

The stranger flashed a glare at Peter, turning, and that’s when Stiles saw the badge sitting on his hip.

The stranger was a cop.

The cop walked toward him a few steps, though he never put his back fully to Peter, who had finally sat up in his seat. “What’s your name?”

Stiles’s eyes flitted toward Peter, and he waited until the man nodded before answering. “Stiles.”

“How old are you, Stiles?”

Peter scoffed loudly, standing and striding up to put himself just in between the two of them. “Really, Derek, is this your idea of manners? Coming over here and interrogating people?”

It all clicked. Peter had said he had a nephew that worked for the sheriff’s office. Derek was the nephew, the cop.

“He was sleeping upstairs,” Derek snapped at Peter. Stiles wondered wildly if he’d known that because he was a werewolf, too, before he remembered that he was in sweats and his hair was probably sticking up like he’d just woken up.

“He wasn’t feeling well. I wasn’t going to send him home like that,” Peter insisted.

“Peter...” Derek said, voice low, almost a growl.

_Like a werewolf growl?_ Stiles thought wildly.

Peter clapped his hands together and shook his head. “Derek, it’s time you leave. If you can’t be a courteous guest, feel free to disinvite yourself from future visits.”

Derek’s jaw clenched, and he spared a long glare for Peter, then glanced back up at Stiles, looking uncertain. “Are you okay?” he asked slowly.

Peter’s sharp eyes were on him in a second, warning.

Was he okay?

His head hurt. Stiles had spent the past week swimming through a haze of new medication and the two before that in a state of near-constant panic, feet cut up, not allowed to wear clothes. Peter was a werewolf, which he still hadn’t fully dealt with, and would turn Stiles into a werewolf if he ever tried to leave. And, to top it all off, he was pretty sure he was in trouble no matter what he did here.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said, and he watched both of their expressions change at the same time. Derek’s to a deep, resigned sort of concern. Peter’s to simmering rage. He’d heard the lie.

Derek left, and Peter stood, silently staring at him in the entry way for long minutes.

“Do I not treat you well?” he asked at last.

“Of course you do,” Stiles answered quickly.

“Do I not feed you? House you? Educate you? Tend to your very complex medical needs?”

Almost immediately, Stiles started to feel guilty over his own selfishness. Because Peter did fucking everything for him, and here he was, thinking of Peter as some sort of threat. “I’m sorry,” Stiles said. “It’s just the meds. I’m just… I’ve got this headache, and I keep -”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shut up,” he sighed.

Stiles shut up.

“Come here,” he said, stepping back into the living room.

Stiles went, hurrying down the stairs and following Peter to the couch. The man sat down and motioned toward the floor in front of him, so Stiles knelt.

“Get me hard,” Peter said.

Stiles moved forward at once, rubbing the man through his jeans, nuzzling in close and working his fly open. Peter lifted his hips to allow Stiles to tug his pants down a bit.

“Let’s try for a little gratitude, why don’t we?” Peter said, and his tone was light, like he was making a joke. “How about a ‘Thank you, Daddy’?”

“Thank you, Daddy,” Stiles said immediately.

“For…?”

Stiles mouthed at him through his underwear. “Thank you for taking care of me, Daddy.” Peter waved his hand for Stiles to go on. “Thank you for feeding me and housing me and..” Fuck, what was everything he’d listed out? “Thank you for teaching me and for the meds.” Peter hummed contentedly as Stiles pulled his underwear down and wrapped his lips around Peter’s half-hard cock. He pulled off and said, “Thank you for letting me suck your cock, Daddy.”

“There’s my good boy,” Peter praised, petting his hair. His fingers twisted in it, and he tugged Stiles down faster than he’d been ready for, letting him choke for a moment before letting up. “Go on, then. Make Daddy come.”

And Stiles did. He liked when Peter gave him more control over blowjobs, instead of just fucking his face, so he did his best to pull out all the stops, make them as good as possible to encourage Peter to give him the reins more often. He liked to think it worked. Stiles swallowed down everything when Peter came, then looked up at him, searching his face for forgiveness.

He found fondness there, and felt something uncoil inside of himself. “I love you, Daddy,” Stiles said.

A warm smile spread across Peter’s face, and he patted his thigh. “Come here. Pants off first, then sit on my lap.”

Stiles stood and shoved his sweats out of the way, leaving him bottomless in a t-shirt. Peter didn’t tell him to take that off, though, so he left it on. Peter pulled him down in his lap so Stiles was facing out at the living room window. The curtains were closed, always were. Peter hooked Stiles’s knees over his own, then spread them wider. He licked his hand and wrapped it around Stiles’s cock.

“Say, ‘Thank you for touching me, Daddy’,” he murmured as he stroked Stiles to hardness. It was slow going, which was unusual for Stiles, but Peter seemed undeterred, slipping his other hand up to tease Stiles’s nipples.

“Thank you for touching me, Daddy.”

Peter kissed his neck, stroked his chest and stomach, all the while sliding his hand over Stiles’s length. He pulled it away once, telling Stiles to spit into it before going back to it. His other hand dropped down to cup his balls and tease at his taint.

Before too long, Stiles had his head tipped back against Peter’s shoulder, panting and whining. “Daddy, I think I’m close,” he gasped.

“That’s good,” Peter said. “You come whenever you want, but you know what to say after, hmm?”

Stiles nodded, then let himself relax into the sensations. He felt dizzy when he came, a rushing in his ears and spots in front of his eyes. But he remembered to say, “Thank you for letting me come, Daddy.”

Peter petted the inside of Stiles’s thigh idly. “If you ever see him again, you tell me right away.”

The words caught Stiles by surprise, and he half-turned in Peter’s lap to look at his face. “Derek? Is he the nephew you talked about?”

Nodding, Peter kept his eyes fixed on the front door, not on Stiles. “You tell me if you see him again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Daddy.” Stiles hesitated, not wanting to stir up Peter’s ire again, but feeling like he had a bit more leeway in the wake of orgasm than he might otherwise have. “Is he… are you worried about him? Or, I mean, is he a threat?”

Peter turned and looked at Stiles then, expression unreadable. After a moment, he nudged Stiles up and off his lap. “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Physical abuse, medical abuse, psychiatric medication abuse, coercive sex, Stockholm Syndrome
> 
> I was a bit of a maniac this weekend, so I've written WAY ahead and will be likely be doing daily or every-other-day updates. Also, you might notice that this is 31 chapters instead of the 30 I originally budgeted for. There's a section way down the line that was supposed to be tacked onto another, but I separated them out because some of the chapters get SUPER long.


	14. Endearment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles have a day out, and Peter shares some new insights.

“Stiles, it’s a picnic, not a four-course meal,” Peter admonished through a grin.

On the counter between them, Stiles had crammed a tote bag so full of tupperware containers of food that he’d had to reshuffle them and start putting the shallower ones down the side of the bag. “But what if we get lost in the woods and have to survive off this until we make it back out?” Stiles insisted with mock histrionics.

“I could track our way out no matter what,” Peter said, leaning forward on his forearms.

“What if you get too in touch with nature and your wolf decides to live out in the woods and make me fend for myself?” Stiles pushed, a cheeky smile on his lips.

Peter scooted the tote bag to the side and leaned across the counter to plant a kiss on Stiles’s lips. “I would always provide for you, Stiles. Man or wolf.”

Stiles felt his stomach swoop, knees going a little weak. “I love you,” he sighed against Peter’s mouth.

“I love you. Now let’s get a move on.”

* * *

  
  


The preserve itself wasn’t very far away, but Peter took them farther out into it, along the county line, to an area Stiles had never been in before, as far as he could remember.

The few leaves that hadn’t dropped off the trees already were deep reds and oranges, and the air was cool, just a subtle bite of cold. It was the sort of weather that Stiles would have found foreboding before – because it meant winter was almost upon them, and soon he would be scrambling every day to find a way to get out of the cold.

Peter took the tote bag, leaving the picnic blanket for Stiles to carry.

“I don’t think I’ve been on this side of the preserve,” Stiles commented.

Peter hummed, reaching over and rubbing a hand over the back of Stiles’s neck. “Have you been in the preserve much?”

“My dad used to take me hiking,” Stiles said. “And my friend Scott’s house was pretty close to the main entrance off Vallejo Street, so we would go there sometimes when we were kids.” He hugged the blanket against his chest. “I used to think about, like, just saving up to buy a tent and a sleeping bag, set it up out here. But then I was never sure if I’d be able to handle winters out here, and what if I left my tent up and someone stole it or a cop found it or… well, I never bothered trying.”

“Had I known, we could have bought a tent and camped out here tonight,” Peter mused.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles asked, a grin settling over his face. “I didn’t think you’d be into the outdoorsy stuff.”

Peter snorted. “Just because I enjoy some of the finer things in life, that doesn’t mean I’m totally housebound. Being a werewolf necessitates a certain comfort with the natural world.”

“So you can go howl at the moon and catch rabbits, right?”

Peter cuffed him on the back of the head, but he was smiling.

They hiked for about twenty minutes, then stopped in a grassy clearing to eat. Stiles spread out the blanket, smoothing out the wrinkles while Peter stood off to the side, watching him with a fond smile. Once Stiles sat down, Peter settled in next to him, and they started to pull items from the tote.

Stiles really had gone a bit overboard on the preparations. Chicken pasta salad, ham sandwiches, fruit, hard boiled eggs, pitas and hummus, chocolate chip cookies, and two bottles of iced tea. His first week on the ADHD meds, he’d had no appetite whatsoever, but now that he’d settled into everything, his appetite was back with a vengeance.

He started to dig into the pita and hummus while Peter cracked open his tea. “Take it slow,” Peter laughed. “You eat like a starved dog, you know that?”

“Sorry,” Stiles said, covering his mouth, since it was still partly full of pita. Peter commented on his ravenous eating all the time, but he didn’t seem to mind it like he minded Stiles talking with his mouth open, which was squarely in the realm of ‘pet peeve.’ Stiles swallowed and looked up at him sheepishly. “Just habit.”

“From not knowing when you’ll get your next meal,” Peter filled in.

Stiles ducked his head and nodded, fidgeting with the sleeves of his – Peter’s, actually – sweatshirt.

Peter stretched an arm out toward him, tugging Stiles closer until their sides were pressed together. He kissed the side of Stiles’s head and cradled his jaw in one hand. “You never have to worry about things like that ever again, do you understand? I’m going to make sure you have exactly as much as you need from now on.”

Melting into Peter’s touch was all too easy, relaxing under his words. Letting the endless vigilance and anxiety of his years on the street just… give way. Giving control over to Peter, completely.

The anxiety meds probably helped some, too.

Stiles tipped his head up for a kiss, and he got it. “I love you,” he sighed.

They ate and chatted, Peter talking about a research project he was overseeing. Stiles didn’t do all that much day-to-day, other than study and clean the house, so he didn’t have any thrilling conversation to contribute. But that was alright. He liked to listen to Peter.

The plums Stiles had packed were soft, perfectly ripe, and the juice dripped in his hand, sliding down his wrist so he had to lick at it before the juice hit his sleeve. “Oh God, I didn’t pack napkins,” Stiles snickered, then looked up to see Peter watching him with a warm, fond expression that made his stomach flutter.

Peter waited for him to eat the last of the flesh off the plum, then took the core and tossed it toward the treeline. “Let me help.” He held Stiles’s arm by the elbow and languidly licked and sucked the juice from his fingers, his palm, working his way down to his wrist. Peter tugged Stiles’s sleeve back and closed his teeth around his wrist in a loose, painless simulation of a bite. Stiles felt like his heart stumbled in his chest at the sight, reminding himself that Peter had to be a wolf to turn him.

Pulling back and pressing a kiss to Stiles’s pulse point instead, Peter murmured. “I think if I ever did turn you, claim you as mine, I’d put my mark right here.” He sighed and nuzzled against the spot, then looked Stiles in the eye, clearly not ignorant to the low hum of nerves he’d started. “If,” he defended, sounding just a bit miffed at Stiles’s guarded expression. “I said ‘if’.”

“I know,” Stiles said softly. Then, feeling like he needed to defend himself somehow, he added. “I love you. You’d never need to.”

That won him a grin, and Peter tugged Stiles closer, into his lap so Stiles’s knees bracketed his hips. “Stiles, honey, you’re so perfect. You know that?” He pressed his face into the crook of Stiles’s neck and inhaling. Smelling him, Stiles realized.

“What do I smell like?” Stiles asked, curious.

Peter kissed him, rubbing a thumb at the corner of his jaw. “You smell like me. Like you’re mine. Like my house, my soap, my sweat.” Peter licked into his mouth and slid his hands down to the small of Stiles’s back, then up under the hem of his sweater.

Stiles wondered what he’d smelled like before. If people had scents that were intrinsic to themselves or if they just absorbed the scents of their environments. If being transient, homeless, had made him devoid of a unique, personal smell.

Peter laid him out on the blanket and kissed him in a slow, feverish manner that made Stiles’s head spin. It was too cold to get undressed, but hands wandered under his shirt, down the back of his pants. He ended up on his elbows and knees, jeans pulled down just below his ass while Peter ate him out like they had all the time in the world.

They did. It was around noon, the sun bright and not a cloud in the crisp autumn sky. Neither of them had anywhere to be today except here, wrapped up in one another with no one around for miles.

When Peter pushed into him, Stiles was well-prepared and feeling needy. He whined as Peter nibbled on his earlobe from behind, body draped over Stiles’s back and hips rocking in gentle, teasing rolls.

“I love you,” he heard himself gasping. “Oh my God, you feel so good. I love you so much.”

Peter had a hand up his shirt, flicking his thumb over Stiles’s nipple gently. “You make the most beautiful noises when I fuck you,” Peter praised, then snapped his hips a little harder just to hear another one, a whiny little moan.

When Stiles came, Peter caught the come in his hand and brought it up to Stiles’s mouth, thrusting erratically into him while he watched Stiles lick his hand clean with a lazy, blissed-out expression.

After they’d caught their breath, lying stretched out side-by-side on the blanket and staring up into the bright blue sky above, Peter reached over and caught hold of Stiles’s hand, squeezing it.

“You are the sweetest thing I’ve ever known,” Peter said.

Stiles found himself combing through his memories, trying to remember the last time he’d had a moment as perfect as this one. As carefree and joyful, a time when he felt this loved. It had to have been when he was a child, he thought, but he couldn’t pin down any one time that could compare.

* * *

  
  


“How are you feeling?” Peter asked as they packed up the food. “Tired at all?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, I really think the side-effects are gone by now.”

“That’s good. Let’s leave this here and hike on a bit, then. There’s something I want to show you.”

They hiked for another half hour through some rougher terrain, a few ravines and thicker areas of brush along the way. Peter’s werewolf agility came in handy. He pushed a dead tree over for them to walk across a ravine, holding Stiles steady as they crossed. He extended his claws to cut through thickets crossing their paths. It was the first time Stiles had really seen his abilities in action since he’d learned what Peter was.

Finally, Peter stopped. The space they’d come into was strewn with leaves, very little grass visible through. The trees here were smaller, younger, and through their young branches, Stiles could see the fire-blackened ruins of an old house.

It looked like it must have been beautiful before. Three stories with a front porch and a rooftop balcony. As he walked up to stand beside Peter, he could see that, while the front facade of the house had mostly survived, much of the back end had collapsed.

“This is where the previous alpha of the Hale pack lived,” Peter said.

“What happened?” Stiles asked, voice hushed. Something about the foreboding presence of the house made it feel wrong to speak at full volume.

“My older sister,” Peter told him. “Talia. She was the alpha, and she was weak. Trusting. She had a soft touch with the pack, let them wander off to find trouble on their own time. No control. And, surprise, surprise, one of them lead our enemies right to our doors. Eight people died in the fire. My sister included.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say. Peter turned to look at him, and while his face held that hard, fierce control that always lurked there to some extent, Stiles could also make out a sort of vulnerability there. Peter was opening up to him.

“A pack you can’t control is a liability. It’s better to have no pack at all.” His voice was cold.

“Is that what you want?” Stiles asked. “No pack?”

Peter reached out, petting the hair at the base of Stiles’s skull and keeping his hand there, holding his neck. “If I do make a pack, Stiles, I will be a real alpha. I will lead, and my pack will follow. I won’t leave them to their own devices to sabotage us under the shadow of my own neglect.”

That Peter had some serious control issues had been apparent to Stiles from day one. The full picture was starting to come together, though. In controlling Stiles, he was protecting him. In a way, Stiles thought, maybe he was practicing, getting himself ready to lead a real pack.

“Stiles, would you like to see my wolf form?” Peter asked.

Surprising himself, Stiles nodded his head. The idea of it had scared him, but now he wanted the rest of the picture. What Peter would look like, leading a pack with Stiles at his side.

Peter stepped back from him, watching Stiles’s face like he wasn’t quite sure if he should believe Stiles when he said he wanted this. Apparently, what he saw reassured him. Turning, he walked across the clearing to the front steps of the Hale house. He undressed slowly, shedding his jacket, then his sweater and undershirt in one go, and carefully folding each and placing them on the step. Then his boots, then pants and underwear.

The pale, bare skin of Peter’s back seemed to ripple, even from the distance Stiles watched from. The man curled forward, as if in pain, shoulders hunching, and then black began to spread across his skin, starting from the center of his back. Fur sprouted from the black, and Peter started to grow taller even as he hunched forward. His shoulders, normally broad and muscular, spread even further outward and bulged under the fur and skin.

When he turned back toward Stiles, the face that met him was not Peter’s. It was, unmistakably, the face of a monster. An elongated snout, red eyes, huge fangs. He snarled, and Stiles jumped, heart hammering uncontrollably in his chest. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the werewolf.

“Peter?” he said softly.

The creature snarled again, taking a few steps closer.

Stiles licked his lips nervously and tried again. “Daddy?”

The wolf tilted his head to the side at that, his pointed ears twitching. Then he bound forward on all fours, crossing the clearing in no time at all, until he was standing right in front of Stiles, breath hot on Stiles’s face. The wolf looked like it was waiting for something, and Stiles wondered if he was afraid Stiles would run, reject him in this form.

Though his hand was shaking, Stiles reached up and touched Peter’s snout. “Daddy, you still know me, right? It’s just you in a different shape?”

The wolf moved in, and Stiles tipped his head back at once so Peter could smell him. So he could smell that Stiles was his. In this form, Peter towered over him, a good foot taller and twice as broad. Huge, clawed hands settled on Stiles’s hips, pulling him closer until he was pressed up against something else of Peter’s which had definitely gotten bigger and scarier with the transformation.

Stiles sucked in a nervous breath. “Here?” he asked, voice small. He didn’t know of a delicate way to ask, _Are you sure you want to fuck in the place your family burned alive?_ But Peter-wolf was already pulling him back toward the house.

God, this was too fucked up.

Stiles pressed a hand against Peter’s chest, pushing just enough to get his attention – it wasn’t like he had a prayer of overpowering Peter like this in any case. “Peter. Peter, wait,” he said, soft but firm.

Peter actually stopped, and Stiles found he was surprised by that.

Stiles looked up at him, thinking carefully about how he wanted to say this. “I love you,” he said to start. “I love you human, and I love you like this, okay? I love you always.” He looked down between them, where the wolf’s massive dick was half-hard. “But, um… I mean, honestly, I think it’s too big.” He looked up at Peter and gave him a smile that was half-cringing, but full of humor. “I do have to walk back to the car, you know.”

The wolf made a strange sound then, a huffing grunting sound that Stiles realized was laughter. He laughed back, relieved that Peter was taking it okay. The creature started to shudder under Stiles’s hands, and he watched in fascination as Peter’s form shrank, the hairs receding and pale skin coming back into view, his snout retreating back into his normal face. Stiles reached up to touch Peter’s human nose, trying to feel a sign of the change, but it was just his normal nose.

“You’re good with the wolf,” Peter told him. “You’re a natural.”

“That’s because it’s not a wolf,” Stiles told him. “It’s just you.” Peter lifted an eyebrow at him, and Stiles internally conceded that he was being a little too corny. “Okay, you but, like, huge and really hairy and non-verbal.”

Peter laughed and bent forward, scooping Stiles up over his shoulder, patting his butt as he carried him over to the house. “I wasn’t kidding about fucking here, though,” he said, sounding particularly chipper. “It’s time to make a claim on Hale land again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: discussions of werewolf-shifted sex (but no follow-through), canonical character deaths; fluff/romance with an abusive partner


	15. Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A video from Stiles's past comes back to haunt him.

Stiles mostly used his phone for games and videos these days. The only person he messaged or called was Peter, and Peter wasn’t much for phone communication anyway. He would occasionally send Stiles a text to add something to a grocery list or tell him he would be late home from work, but other than that, his phone was a glorified YouTube machine.

Early on, he’d gotten the occasional stray message from an old client, asking for a “date,” but that hadn’t been a big deal. Peter knew about it. He knew Stiles hadn’t liked that life. Stiles would show him the message, roll his eyes, and say something like, _Thank god I don’t have to deal with that anymore_, and Peter would smile and delete the message for him.

It had been months now since he got a message.

Things had been so good between the two of them since Peter had opened up about being a werewolf. Stiles stayed out of his way during the nights of the full moon, but he didn’t need to be locked in his room. Peter got a little rougher in bed around that time, but Stiles understood now.

His medications had leveled out, though Peter had to make a couple of adjustments to dosages here and there. The only side-effect that hadn’t really gone away was his appetite – Peter told him that the anxiety meds sometimes made people overeat, and he’d noticed Stiles putting food away just a bit too quickly. So now he had a calorie tracker on his phone, too, so Peter could keep an eye on how much he ate and limit him as necessary.

Every morning, _Go for a run_ was at the top of his daily to-do list. Stiles had never had a chance to get into athletics, but he found he enjoyed his morning runs now. He went right after his first dose of meds, and it helped him wake up and level out his energy for the day.

Lessons had been going well. Stiles was up to an eleventh grade reading level, and he’d made steady progress in all of his other subjects, too. Peter said, with the progress he was making, Stiles was on-track to get his GED by the time he was nineteen, just a year behind schedule.

The holidays had passed quietly enough. Peter didn’t have family left that he wanted to spend them with, and Stiles didn’t ask why Derek wasn’t invited. So it was just the two of them. Peter showed Stiles how to make a Thanksgiving turkey. Stiles snuck out during the day to buy Peter’s Christmas presents, then hid them in the laundry room. A bottle of whiskey hard to find most of the year and a custom-engraved fountain pen for work.

Peter got him clothes, a Nintendo Switch, and a little envelope with a business card in it for a law firm.

“They specialize in emancipation and custody issues,” Peter had explained. “When you turn eighteen in the spring, I’m going to have them track down your papers, make sure everything is in order so you can get an ID, become a real part of society.”

Stiles sucked him off under the Christmas tree in thanks.

Peter hardly ever got angry with him anymore, and Stiles had gotten used to the punishments. For small things, like mouthing off, he got a few with the cane, and usually got to pick where. For blatant disobedience, Peter caned his feet, but never as badly as that first time. He knew how much Stiles could handle.

It was a brand new year. Stiles would be turning eighteen in just four and a half months, and he was living with a man he loved. Some days, he could hardly remember what his life had been like before Peter. Some days, it felt like he’d always been here, where he belonged.

Then someone had to send him that stupid fucking video.

It was actually an old friend of his, a guy he’d hung out with at clubs when he was cruising for customers. The message said,

_So I guess you’re a porn star now?? Congrats?_

Attached was a link to a video from a party he’d worked about a year earlier.

It had been a small group of older men in a hotel room. There was footage of him on his knees in front of three men. Footage of him being spit-roasted. A shot of him laid out on a small table in the room, legs in the air and moaning as men took turns fucking him. He came while they were fucking him. It showed his face a lot – his face red while he whimpered, his face covered in come. It was an hour and a half video, all together.

Stiles vaguely remembered that night. It had been a bitterly cold winter, and he’d barely been managing to keep himself indoors and out of shelters that might report him as a runaway. He hadn’t had a decent meal in days, and he needed the money badly.

Normally, he wouldn’t do groups in settings like that. A strip show at a frat party, sure. If it seemed dodgy, that was all Stiles had agreed to, and he could bounce. Plus, he knew where they all lived, so they had extra incentive to behave themselves. Agreeing to fuck a group of men in a neutral location was a risk he hadn’t liked to take.

Until he got desperate.

They’d drugged him up, too. Some club drug that had him relaxed and horny and enjoying their rough treatment more than he might have otherwise. He hadn’t known someone was filming at the time, or maybe he just hadn’t remembered it. Seeing how he looked on the recording, Stiles wished he hadn’t taken them up on the drugs. He wished he looked uncomfortable in the video, or maybe a little bored. Instead, he looked desperate and slutty, moaning and getting off.

Peter could never fucking see it.

Peter was out when he got it, and Stiles made sure to watch it with his headphones on and his back against a wall, not sure where the nanny cams were these days or if Peter still watched them. He should have just deleted the text, but having the link made him feel like he had some sort of control over the video. Maybe he couldn’t take it down, but at least he knew where it was online.

And then, instead of playing it cool, he somehow managed to make himself as conspicuous as possible.

He greeted Peter a little too enthusiastically when he got home, chipper and asking about his day, then asking follow-up questions incessantly until Peter growled and nudged him out of the way, heading for the kitchen. Though the likelihood of Peter asking a question he’d have to lie about was slim, he didn’t want to give him the chance to get there. Needed to distract him.

Stiles had been putting the finishing touches on dinner when Peter got home, and his phone was sitting on the kitchen island. Suddenly, he felt like he’d left a live bomb lying around.

Peter headed for the stove, walking right past it, and bent over the stove to smell the ravioli staying warm in the sauce. “Smells good,” he said, turning around. Stiles’s eyes flitted from Peter to the phone, and he forced a smile. Peter was less than a foot from the phone, and Stiles felt like he was going to explode from the tension. “Go ahead and set the table, then. I’m starving,” Peter prompted.

The second Peter headed over to sit at the table, Stiles walked over to the island and slipped his phone into his pocket, then went about doling ravioli out into bowls. Stiles only got three because he was nearing his calorie limit for the day. The salad and drinks were already on the table. As Stiles set the bowls down on the kitchen table, Peter smiled at him like he’d just figured something out.

“Come here,” he said, tugging Stiles closer by his belt loop.

Stiles stepped into the V of Peter’s legs. “You want something, Daddy?”

Peter took hold of each of Stiles’s wrists and moved them behind his back, holding them there one-handed. The other hand pressed flat against his stomach, moving down slowly, as if toward his groin. Then, at the last moment, it diverted to his pocket, plucking the phone from it.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest and got as far as “Ah-” before he realized that would only make things worse. He cringed and looked at the bit of floor between them. The text wasn’t open, but it was the last one he’d received.

“You know, you usually leave this thing lying around everywhere,” Peter commented. “And here you are, acting like it might grow legs and walk away.” He hummed, then pushed Stiles back a step. “Sit down. Eat your dinner.”

He had barely taken a single bite out of his ravioli when the sound of the video started. He winced. A man laughing, saying, _“Fuck, look at him go. Where’s the fucking dick go?”_ Stiles felt his cheeks flame. _“Yeah, come on, bitch. Let me try that mouth out.”_ It was probably the tamest part of the video. He was afraid to look up, to see Peter’s reaction, but he had to. Had to know.

Peter’s expression gave nothing away, but his eyes were fixed on the screen. “How long have you had this?” he asked without looking up.

“He only sent it today,” Stiles insisted quickly, hoping that would save him somewhat. “I didn’t know… I thought maybe you wouldn’t like it. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You just tell me,” Peter said firmly. “Like you should tell me everything.”

Stiles looked down at his food, suddenly not very hungry.

When he looked up again, Peter was touching himself idly through his slacks. “Are there more of these?” he asked.

“Um, I don’t think so?” Stiles answered. This didn’t mean he was off the hook, necessarily. Peter could be angry with a hard-on – had been, often. “This is the first one like it I ever saw. But, y’know… I mean, I did a lot of stuff. There might be others somewhere.”

Peter’s hand came back up above the table, and he set the phone against the salad bowl so he could watch it and eat at the same time. He watched quietly until he’d gotten about halfway through his ravioli before asking, “Did you do a lot of this? Did you like it?”

“I didn’t like being a whore,” Stiles answered quickly, always wary of another loyalty test. “I like being here with you.

That earned him an eye roll. “Well, obviously,” he muttered. “I mean, did you like being shared by multiple men? Does that turn you on? You seem to be enjoying it here.” He gestured his fork at the phone.

Stiles wasn’t sure how to defend the version of himself moaning wantonly on the screen. So he went for logistics instead. “Those jobs were always more dangerous. They could gang up on me if they wanted to.”

“Stiles,” Peter said firmly, finally looking up from the screen to fix him with a glare. “What have I said about directly answering the question you’re being asked?”

He hesitated, feeling like there was a specific answer Peter wanted to hear and not sure what it was. “I guess...” he ventured slowly. “I guess the attention was nice sometimes?”

Peter pushed his bowl away from him and started to rub himself through his slacks again, undoing his fly. “Come here.” The second Stiles was in front of him, Peter pulled him into his lap so his back was to Peter’s chest. He pressed his lips to Stiles’s shoulder and ground his hips up so Stiles could feel Peter hard against his ass.

Now Stiles could see the video to go with the sounds. They had moved him to lay on his stomach on the bed, still jerking two guys off while he sucked the third. But now a fourth man had moved behind him to tug his pants down. Stiles closed his eyes.

Peter kissed his neck. “If you knew you were safe?” he pressed. “If you knew nobody would hurt you, would you like it?” His hand groped at Stiles through his pants. Before Stiles could start to puzzle through what the right answer to that question might be, Peter supplied it for him: “You like making your daddy happy, right? You look amazing like that, honey.”

Right. If he wanted Peter happy, there was only one answer. “If it was for you, Daddy. If you were there...” Except that wasn’t what he wanted at all.

Peter’s hands were undoing his pants and shimmying them down his hips, then a hand closed around his dick while Stiles kicked them the rest of the way off. “Of course I would be there, honey. I wouldn’t let anybody touch you unless I was there to make sure you were safe.”

Fuck, was Peter really considering this? It went against everything Stiles thought he knew about the man, about his possessiveness. “I don’t think anyone would be as good as you,” Stiles insisted. He braced his hands on the arms of the chair, spreading his legs wide over Peter’s knees.

“Nobody ever will be,” Peter agreed. He grabbed Stiles’s legs under the knees, lifting so his bare feet rested on Peter’s knees. He pressed two fingers to Stiles’s mouth. “Suck,” he demanded. “Show Daddy what a good boy you can be.”

Stiles opened his eyes as he sucked on Peter’s fingers. On the video, the spit-roasting had started, one man kneeling behind him on the bed and another standing in front of him. Was Peter honestly talking about setting him up for something like this? Was Stiles not enough for him maybe? Peter pressed his fingers in deeper, making Stiles choke, then pulled them out.

“Do you, um, do you like the video?” Stiles ventured, trying to find some alternative. “I mean, y’know, having things on video. If you wanted to take some of me…?” Maybe that would sate him for a while, distract him from this other idea.

Peter’s hand moved between his legs, teasing only a moment before he pressed one finger and then both into Stiles. They fucked often enough that it wasn’t too bad a stretch, but it had still been quick, and with only spit. Stiles hissed. Peter’s other hand wrapped around his throat but applied no pressure. Not yet. “What I want,” he breathed against Stiles’s ear, “is to watch that, in person.”

The fingers curled, seeking and finding Stiles’s prostate with a practiced precision that had him whining and tipping his head back against Peter’s shoulder. Fuck, so much for that idea. Stiles let the worry slip away, focusing instead on Peter’s attention, the pleasure he gave him. “Yeah. Yes, Daddy. We can do that.” He had caved so easily and hardly even noticed.

“I would keep you safe,” Peter assured him.

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Stiles asked, gasping as Peter’s fingers twisted inside of him.

“Is that what you want, honey?” The hand on his throat tightened just slightly. “Tell me what you want, baby. Anything my good boy wants.”

Instead of the anxious fear he had felt at the idea of being shared, Stiles focused on what he was feeling now, the comfort and almost suffocating certainty that went with Peter’s presence. That he would never be adrift, never not know where he belonged or what he was supposed to do. All he had to do now was keep his legs spread, ride the man’s fingers, and say what Peter wanted him to say. “I want to ride your cock, Daddy,” he breathed. “It would be so good like this, fill me up so deep.”

It was the perfect angle, though the position would be difficult to keep up, physically. He was fit, though – for this, at least. Peter was never merciful when it came to Stiles getting sore or cramped or tired in the middle of sex. It wasn’t over until Daddy was satisfied. Besides, Stiles was sure that Peter would want to watch the video while they went at it. Peter groaned and tightened his grip more, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to bruise.

The first guy on screen had stepped back and was filming as another came up and started fucking him. They were talking about how easily he took it.

“Hold on,” Peter growled in his ear. His fingers slipped out, and he had to maneuver a bit, lifting Stiles’s hips, to get his own pants down far enough to get his cock out. Then he brought his hand up to Stiles’s face, cupping it under his mouth. “Spit,” he ordered.

Stiles spit, gathering as much saliva into his mouth as he could and letting it drool down into Peter’s waiting palm. As they shifted around, Stiles wrapped one arm around the back of Peter’s neck for stability. From that position, their faces were closer together and he could stare at Peter as much as he wanted. “I love you, Daddy,” he murmured while Peter slicked his own cock with spit.

Peter didn’t answer right away. He grabbed Stiles’s hip with one hand, using the other to guide himself into him. Then he used both to pull Stiles down into his lap, a little too fast, groaning and breathing, “_Fuck_, I love you, too.”

The first push was always a stretch. Peter rarely gave him enough prep, and Stiles suspected that he liked to see the initial grimace on his face.

“Ride me,” Peter ordered, giving the side of Stiles’s ass a quick slap. “Show Daddy how you’d ride him if people were watching. Show them who you belong to.”

Stiles started to bounce his hips slowly. Just as he’d thought, the angle was perfect. Every time his hips came down nicely onto Peter’s dick, gravity exaggerating the push. It was difficult to keep Peter from slipping out when he lifted up, so Stiles kept his movements small.

“You’re mine,” Peter hissed in his ear. “Even when other men fuck you, you belong to me. Isn’t that right, honey?”

Stiles groaned and let his head go limp against the man’s shoulder as he moved. He heard hoots and hollers on the phone and knew this was the part where they manhandled him over the back of the couch so they could have complete control while they continued to spit-roast him. “Yes. Yours. You feel so good, Daddy.”

Peter grabbed his jaw roughly, forcing his head back up. “Open your eyes and look at that.”

On screen, he was over the back of the couch, and someone had brought a beer bottle to his lips, telling him to drink it. Someone thrust into him just as he did, and Stiles choked on the beer. “You’re so beautiful,” Peter told him.

As Stiles’s movements slowed, muscles giving out, Peter picked him up by the backs of his knees and stood without pulling out. Stiles yelped, but the sound melted into a laugh as he hung on. Peter bent him over the narrow bit of table that was clear of food, still with a clear view of the phone screen. He let Stiles’s feet drop to the floor and kicked them wide apart. A hand came down on the back of his neck, pressing his face into the table while Peter started fucking into him in short, hard thrusts.

The phone was closer now, and it was impossible to tune out the sound of his own muffled moaning, the grunting and jeering of his customers. Rising up onto his toes, Stiles pushed back into the thrusts, gripping the edge of the table for leverage. He let himself get louder, moaning ‘Daddy’ and ‘yes’ and ‘please,’ if for no other reason than to try to drown out the video.

Peter bent over him and growled, “You’re such a good boy. I love you,” It was amazing what those little words could do to Stiles, what anxieties and discomforts they could disappear from his thoughts. “I want you to come before Daddy, honey. I want you to squeeze that tight little ass.” He angled his hips and fucked into Stiles harder, one hand coming down and slapping his ass hard.

The spanking did it for him, pushing Stiles over the edge with a muffled shout. His body went taut as he came on the kitchen floor, back arching. He went loose on the table, face pressed against the table as the Stiles on the screen kept moaning and choking on cock. Behind him, Peter gave one more thrust and came with a groan.

Peter pulled out and collapsed back into his chair. He traced his hand over Stiles’s ass, pressing the trail of come trickling out of him back into his hole with a sort of idle interest. “Alright. Sit down and finish your dinner,” he instructed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: discussion of food control, unethical medical practices, body shaming; abusive relationship; porn filmed without consent; porn depicting Stiles under the age of 18; discussions of non-consensual group sex, drugged sex
> 
> Next chapter is going to shake things up a bit, so get ready for a change of pace!


	16. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Peter's latest abuse, Stiles makes a difficult choice.

Stiles woke to a familiar cramp in his lower back, the kind he got when a trick was too rough with him the night before. He gasped as he blinked awake but didn’t move. His body felt heavy, mind fogged over and muddled. Rain beat against his bedroom window, water streaming down the glass so heavy that it was impossible to see out.

Right, the club. Peter had taken him to a club the night before. To show him off to other men.

* * *

  
  


“_You look nervous, honey,” Peter purred at him. “Here, let’s take the edge off before we go.”_

_He went to the cabinet over the stove, where they kept Stiles’s meds, and he shook a pill from the bottle of anxiety medication. He came back to Stiles with a glass of water in one hand, the pill in the other._

“_Open up.”_

* * *

  
  


Stiles closed his eyes again, lifting his arms though they felt sluggish and digging the heels of his hands into his eyelids. The extra dose had doped him all to hell, leaving him to cling to Peter’s arm for stability as they entered the club.

The place was discrete and cautious. Peter had explained to him a couple of days before they went that the cops liked to shake the place down every so often, so Stiles needed a good fake ID to hold them over until he turned eighteen and could be there legally.

Stiles hadn’t known what to expect, had never been anywhere like it before. Through the haze of the medication and the hangover that followed, he only had a vague sense of the layout, the color scheme, the general feel of the place.

* * *

  
  


“_You look like you’re about to fall asleep on your feet,” Peter said, sounding irritated. “Come on, it was just your usual dose again.”_

_Stiles was sluggishly tugging his clothes off in the changing room. Peter had told him to just keep on his jock strap. The rest they would leave in a locker._

_Making an annoyed grunt, Peter shook his head and fished for something in the bag he’d brought. Then he strode over to Stiles and grabbed his chin roughly. His claws were out, Stiles realized, and he looked around to see if anyone else was in the room. No, just them._

_Peter lifted one claw to Stiles’s nostril and said, “Sniff.”_

_Stiles sniffed, then cringed. Coke. He recognized the numbing effect right away and pulled back to rub at his face._

“_There, now you won’t be completely useless.”_

* * *

  
  


Memories of the night before were coming back to him in starts and stops, vague images too hazy around the edges. Stiles rolled onto his side carefully and looked at his alarm clock. It was already eight, but Peter let him sleep in a little on Saturdays. Plus, they’d been out until late the night before.

He managed to sit up just a little, reaching for the glass of water on his nightstand. His throat wasn’t just dry – it ached, like it had been bruised.

* * *

  
  


_Stiles was bouncing in Peter’s lap, riding him with a haphazard sort of pace. He could feel eyes on them, other men watching as Peter tugged on the chain around Stiles’s neck. It would tighten, cutting off his air, then release just as Stiles started to panic._

_Peter released it again and leaned in. “There’s a man watching you. He wants you. Do you want him to fuck you, Stiles?”_

_Stiles shook his head. “No, Daddy, just want you.”_

_The chain tightened hard enough that Stiles made a choking noise and scrabbled at it with both hands. “Is that what we’re here for?” Peter hissed at him. “Here to fuck the same way we can at home whenever we want? Or are we here for you to put on a show?”_

* * *

  
  


True to his word, Peter had stayed close by while strangers fucked him. Through his in-and-out haze of coked-out numbness and the looseness of his anxiety meds, Stiles thought he was starting to see how this appealed to someone as controlling as Peter.

He got the say on who fucked Stiles. Not the men, not Stiles. Stiles was his commodity to mete out and share as he saw fit. There was also an odd sort of assessment in how he looked at them. Now, lying in bed, Stiles wondered if Peter had been thinking about pack, about how he would share things and control things in a pack.

About how he would share Stiles with his pack.

For a gut-clenching moment, Stiles imagined Peter in his wolf form, surrounded by other wolves, all of them ready to fuck him like that, even if it totally destroyed him.

Tears burned at his eyes as he realized how similar last night had been. Sure, they’d all been human, but they felt like monsters anyway.

* * *

  
  


_The next one thrust in too quickly, too hard, the angle all wrong, and Stiles yelped and crawled forward. They’d laid him over a padded leather horse tall enough that his legs couldn’t touch the ground. He pulled at the edge of it, trying to get away, trying to get down. The room around him was a blur, and Stiles couldn’t make sense of it._

_People were laughing. Someone said, “Fuck, I want whatever he’s on.”_

_Then Peter’s face was in front of his, close, holding Stiles’s head. “Just hold still, honey.” A hand closed around his ankle, attaching a cuff to it._

“_Daddy,” Stiles tried to plead._

_Peter just stroked his hair and smiled at him and said, “You’re being so good for me. I’m so proud of you, Stiles. You’re beautiful like this.”_

* * *

  
  


Tears burned at Stiles’s eyes, and he pressed his face into his pillow. He couldn’t do that again. If Peter took him to the club again, he felt like he would die. Not from being hurt, not from being raped, just from the bone-deep heartache he felt when he thought about it.

He was supposed to be Peter’s, and Peter loaned him out like an old book.

The door to his room opened, and Peter was standing there. Stiles didn’t have time to wipe away his tears, but Peter didn’t seem to notice or care. He had his coat and boots on, a bag slung over one shoulder. “I have to go out,” he said. “It’s urgent – territory business. I won’t be back until tomorrow.”

Stiles sniffed and propped himself up on an elbow rather than try to sit up. “Is it dangerous?”

“It’ll be fine,” Peter said, waving a hand carelessly. “I left your chore list downstairs, but you’ve got at least until dinner tomorrow to do it, so take your time. Meds are on the counter, I labeled the times to take them.”

It was the first time Peter had ever left him alone in the house overnight. “Okay, Daddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Peter came into the room and kissed the top of his head, then left.

Stiles flopped onto his back on the bed and listened for the sound of the garage door.

He loved Peter, he did. But for the first time in a long time, perhaps the first time since he started living with Peter, Stiles needed to really think about his situation here.

First order of business: the medication. Stiles got out of bed and headed downstairs in his pajamas, then stared down the pills Peter had left out for him. Stiles knew that he’d been a bit hazy these past months. It had been nice for the most part: no nightmares, no panic attacks, no constant anxiety over whether or not he was doing the right thing here. But that was sort of the point. They were keeping him from thinking about his situation.

Stiles didn’t know where the cameras might be, so he picked them up and mimed taking them with a glass of water, keeping them in his palm. Then he let them fall down the garbage disposal while he rinsed the glass.

Two days of a clear head. That’s what he needed to figure this out.

That morning, he mostly just felt hungover and weepy, the memories of the night before filtering back in an endless stream. When he saw the bruises on his neck in the mirror. When he saw that he was bleeding a bit from being fucked too roughly.

His to-do list for the weekend was fairly tame. For lessons, he had a reading assignment – _The Art of War_ – and some exercises in his math workbook. For chores, he had laundry and cleaning the bathrooms. That last task gave him plenty of time to look himself in the mirror and wonder how in the fuck he’d gotten here.

When it really came down to it, he didn’t want to leave Peter. This was his life now. Stiles liked the security and comfort, liked this house. He loved the way Peter made him feel important and loved and safe. But he also knew, deep down, that the club wouldn’t be a one-time thing. Peter had enjoyed himself too much, had almost seemed to delight in Stiles’s reluctance.

Then there was the question of money. Stiles had a debit card for buying groceries and little things he might want on the rare occasions he was out. Supposedly, the account held the money Stiles had with him when he moved in, along with an allowance. But it wasn’t Stiles’s account, and he had no idea how much was in it. They’d never ended up talking about the details.

Sunday, Stiles walked to the nearest ATM, on the side of a convenience store a little over a mile from the house. It was drizzling and cold, the wind whipping the rain up into the hood of his coat, so Stiles was shivering as he punched the PIN into the machine. He was relieved to see that there was over five thousand in the account – maybe not as much as he was expecting Peter to be paying him for months of work, but more than he’d had to begin with, at least. But when he went to withdraw, there was a two hundred dollar limit.

Stiles stared down at the tiny stack of twenties the machine had dispensed to him and felt his heart sink. Two hundred dollars. He would be starting back from nothing. A gust of wind came at him from the side, and Stiles’s teeth began to chatter. He pocketed the money and went home.

The one rule Stiles had made when he moved in was that his money was his own. Peter couldn’t hold it over his head to make him stay. Peter’s threats to turn him had changed that dynamic, certainly, but maybe it was just a possessive thing for Peter to say. Maybe he could be reasonable about this.

He scared Stiles. Of course he did. But it was the first week of February, and winter didn’t seem ready to give up its grip on Beacon Hills any time soon. He couldn’t hit the street with two hundred dollars and a new phone that didn’t take the data cards they sold at gas stations. Peter would shut it off, and then he’d have two hundred dollars and no good way to make money.

* * *

  
  


Stiles made dinner, pork chops, all the while trying to psych himself up for this talk. It had to happen. There was no way he could just let this club bullshit go on. It would break him, he was sure of it.

If Peter noticed Stiles’s distance when he came home or as they sat down to eat, he didn’t say anything. He looked tired, soggy, a little worse for wear, but he didn’t volunteer any information about what he’d been doing or how it had gone.

Finally, Stiles spoke up. “I want to talk about the club.”

Peter lifted his gaze to Stiles, but his expression gave nothing away. “What about it?”

“I’m not going again.”

Peter huffed a laugh at that and took a bite of his dinner. “Are you trying to get in trouble? Stiles, I’m very tired, and I would rather not waste my energy caning sense back into you.”

His stomach clenched in anxiety, but Stiles forced himself to stay strong, to push through. No caving. No giving way. “I understand if it’s something you think is… I mean, if it’s a requirement for you. To have a relationship. But I can’t do it again. So if it is – if it’s a requirement, then...”

He felt a little like he was going to throw up, and Peter seemed to sense the increase in anxiety, sitting up a little taller and watching Stiles with a hard expression.

“Then I want the money you set aside for me, and I’ll go.”

Peter looked down at his lap. He shook his head and muttered, “You ungrateful little brat.” The words stung. Peter blew out a breath, then stood up from the table. “Come on. Upstairs, then, Stiles.”

Stiles stayed where he was sitting. “I’m serious, Peter. You told me you would give it to me if I asked.”

“I know what we agreed to,” Peter snapped. “Now get up. You want to go? Let’s go. Let’s pack your things and get you the fuck out of here.”

A lump started to form in Stiles’s throat. This felt worse, in a way, than Peter just ignoring his wishes and not letting him go. Peter would rather let him leave than concede on the club. Stiles meant that little to him. He got up and followed Peter upstairs.

The man had stopped in the middle of Stiles’s bedroom, arms crossed over his chest. “Well? What are you waiting for? Get to it.”

Stiles nodded and walked to his dresser. All of the clothes he had now were ones Peter had bought him, but he supposed Peter didn’t have any need for a dresser full of clothes in his size.

_Not unless he replaces you_, suggested a cruel voice in his mind.

He was focusing on not crying. Focusing on keeping his hands from shaking as he opened the drawer. Stiles didn’t feel Peter coming up behind him until his hand was around Stiles’s throat.

“I told you I would never let you go,” Peter growled in his ear. “Did you think I was joking?”

If he’d had a nightmare in the past months, Stiles might have thought he’d wake up from this horrible moment, but there was no mistaking it. He was fucked. “Peter. Peter, no,” he whispered.

Peter slammed him face-down onto his bed, kneeling on his back, heavy and careless of shin bones digging into Stiles’s spine. “I told you I’d make you mine before I ever let you go!”

“Please don’t do this!” Stiles yelled, and suddenly the tears he’d been fighting down were rushing to the surface in a wave of dread. “Please, please, I’ll stay! I swear! Please don’t do this!”

Peter was going to follow through on his threat. He was going to turn Stiles. Stiles would be obedient, bound to Peter, never able to leave, never able to disobey. He might as well die for as much of himself as there would be left.

He was only seventeen.

Stiles rarely thought of himself as a child, hadn’t for a long time, but the thought rang through his head, clear and loud and aching. He was only seventeen. He wasn’t ready for his life to be over. Almost everything he’d had so far had been pain and abuse. His life as he knew it was about to be over, and he’d never really had anything good. It wasn’t fair.

He felt Peter’s breath against the back of his neck, the scrape of sharp wolf teeth against his skin. A snarl, Peter rearing back, then diving down to bite.

Peter screamed and practically launched backward off the bed. He stumbled until he was leaning against the opposite wall.

Stiles rolled over and looked at him, bewildered. He’d never heard Peter make a noise like that.

“Why didn’t you tell me!” Peter snarled. “You’ve been lying to me! You’ve been lying to me this whole time!” There was murder in his eyes, a roiling rage to an extent Stiles had never seen before.

“Peter, what are you talking about? What happened?” Stiles demanded.

“You’re a fucking spark!”

Stiles stared at him uncomprehendingly, waiting for the words to make any sort of sense, but they wouldn’t. He shook his head. “I don’t know what that is.”

The rage seemed to reel in a bit. Peter took a few steps toward him. “Tell me again. Tell me you don’t know what a spark is.”

“I don’t,” Stiles answered quickly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Peter nodded, jaw clenched, and he looked Stiles over like one might eye an icy bit of sidewalk before crossing it. “Now tell me you’ll stay with me.”

Stiles opened his mouth to say it, but Peter held up a hand.

“Before you say it, I want you to think. Because if I hear a lie, Stiles, I swear to god I’ll kill you.”

There had been many moments in Stiles’s short, brutal life when he had considered the merits of ending it all, but in that moment, he desperately wanted to live. “I’ll stay,” he said.

Peter waited a long moment before saying, “Good. Now go get the cane and wait on my bed. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you don’t smell like your medication. I think a dosage adjustment is in order.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Rape, aftermath of rape, non-consensual bondage, non-consensual drugging, non-consensual choking, street and prescription drug use, medical abuse, physical abuse, death threats


	17. Enigma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strange things are happening.

Something was wrong with this tree. Stiles couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Everything above the bottom of the trunk gave him the sense that it might just blow away. He walked a slow circle around its massive trunk, assessing.

It was twilight, sunlight reddish and dipped below the treeline. The air felt warmer than it had in quite a while, but there was a sort of static charge to it. The sky looked clear, but Stiles could swear he smelled ozone, like lightning could strike at any moment.

The grass was off, too, Stiles thought. He tore his gaze from the tree to study it, frowning. It took him far too long to realize that it was a sort of blue-violet color. It was supposed to be green, of course.

He looked back at the tree, hoping a similar revelation might strike, but the only strangeness he could observe by eye was its enormous size. Stiles took a few tentative steps closer, knowing what he would have to to do figure this out. He would have to touch the tree.

Stiles’s hand moved as if in slow motion, and as he stared at it, it felt separate from him. Like it was someone else’s hand, but he knew it to be his own. Who else would have those odd, glowing orange swirls below their skin?

That glow Stiles knew to be his own.

He didn’t feel the bark. Instead, his hand moved through the tree like it was moving through open air, disappearing into the trunk. Then something curled around his fingers, unseen inside of the tree, and Stiles pulled his hand back.

Vine-like roots had tangled around his fingers, were twining up his wrist. Stiles tried to pull away, reaching out with his other hand to pull the roots off, but they only latched onto that hand, too. The roots climbed up his arms, pulling him forward as Stiles struggled and dug his heels into the ground. He was no match for strength, though. They pulled him head-first into the pitch dark of the tree.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Stiles struggled against the roots as they constricted him wherever they twined. His legs, his chest, his throat. As his breath started to shorten, Stiles’s eyes flew open again, and he saw that the only light in the dark of the tree was the glowing swirls under his skin.

Of course – why hadn’t he thought of that?

Stiles imagined the glow growing brighter, his skin getting warmer. It did. The glow pulsed as it grew stronger, lighting up the roots, lighting up him. The roots started to pull away where he glowed brightest, releasing their hold bit by bit.

Stiles made a noise of exertion as he pushed at the glow. For one brilliant moment, everything was bright white light around him. The roots rushed away from him, and Stiles dropped.

He landed on a massive tree trunk, gnarled and old, in the same clearing where he’d found the tree. It was night now, the stars brilliant overhead and no moon in the sky.

* * *

  
  


Stiles blinked and saw that same sky, this time through his bedroom window. His bed was warm.

The clearing and the tree hadn’t felt quite real, but neither did this room. This house. Stiles lifted a hand from under his blankets and stared at the plain skin he found there. No swirls of glowing light. What sense did that make?

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d been somewhere real, and now he’d dozed off and come back to this strange, surreal nightmare where he lived with a werewolf.

He had to pee.

Stiles climbed out of bed sluggishly, swaying on his feet and mumbling to himself all the way down the hall to the bathroom. He was peeing, staring blearily as the stream trickled into the toilet, when he realized he hadn’t turned the bathroom light on, but he could see perfectly fine.

Lifting his head, he looked around for the source of the light. It wasn’t the overhead lamp.

The window. Stiles blinked at it, shook himself off, then tucked his dick back into his sleep pants before walking over to the window. It had fogged glass, so he couldn’t see out, but it was like a light was shining directly through it.

Stiles fumbled at the latch, then slid the window open just a crack.

Daylight. That was the light. But wasn’t it just night? Hadn’t he just seen the stars?

Stiles went back to his room. Sure enough, it was day in there, too.

Dreaming. He must be dreaming. Stiles needed to wake up and get back to the clearing, the tree stump. Something important had happened there.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over his dresser and walked toward it, staring at his reflection. The boy there, he didn’t make sense. He was thin, gaunt. He looked like someone had vacuumed the life out of him and left nothing but bones with skin suctioned tight over them.

Collarbones too sharp. Eyes sunken in. Bruises on his wrists. It was a nightmare shade of himself.

_Wake up, wake up, wake up, _he thought at the phantom.

Stiles pinched himself on the arm, but he couldn’t tell if he’d felt it. He needed something serious, something drastic. Something so he could know for sure if this was real. The solution came effortlessly, like the most obvious thing in the world.

He’d stab himself. He’d stab himself in the arm. If he felt it, this was real. If he didn’t, he’d wake up.

Stiles went downstairs to the kitchen, his footsteps noisy in the silence of the house. He plucked a knife from the block without thinking – the chopping knife he used for vegetables. Stiles raised it, ready to make the stab, then choked at the last second and set it down flat on the counter.

He could do this. It was just a dream. _Just a dream. Look how thin my wrists are, it’s a dream._

“Stiles?” Peter sounded soft, sleepy. “What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

Stiles whirled around, not toward Peter but toward the patio door where, indeed, it was dark.

He burst into tears.

“It was light out,” he said, shaking.

“Stiles, what’s going on? Tell me what’s happening here.”

Stiles lunged for the knife. He had to stab himself, had to wake up.

Peter was on him in a second, holding his wrist and prying the knife out of his hand. “Stiles! Stiles, look at me.”

The roots were creeping up over Peter’s face from behind, twining into his nose, his mouth, his eyes. Stiles stared at him in horror, crying and frozen in place. He wasn’t glowing. He couldn’t fight it. His breath came in short, shaking gasps.

Over Peter’s shoulder, the sky was light again. It felt like a brick had fallen into his stomach as Stiles realized what it meant: the passing of time. Days and days passing in this fugue, this nightmare. How long had he been here in this kitchen, Peter shaking his shoulders and saying his name over and over?

“What day is it?” he asked through his tears.

“It’s Thursday, honey.”

“No, what – what month is it?”

Peter cradled his head in both hands and pressed his lips to Stiles’s forehead. “Stiles, what is going on in here?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Stiles sobbed. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“It’s just a bad reaction,” Peter told him. “We’ll make some adjustments, alright, honey?”

“It was night,” Stiles insisted.

“It’s still night, Stiles.”

He sobbed and fell forward against Peter’s chest, feeling helpless against the endless, racing passage of days, days, days.

“It was February,” he cried into Peter’s chest.

Peter stroked his hair and kissed his temple gently. “Stiles,” he said. “Stiles, it’s May.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: extreme dissociation/depersonalization, medical abuse, serious drugs, attempted self-harm (due to delusion, not suicidal ideation)
> 
> This was honestly my favorite chapter to write. The whole story is very distinctly from Stiles's limited point of view, which made moving the story forward during a time when he's not very aware of his surroundings quite the challenge. I also super love the dream logic they use in the show, so I wanted to play with that, too.
> 
> Oh, and Derek is back in the next chapter!


	18. Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets caught up in a police raid of the club, with Officer Derek Hale on the scene.

Stiles had never been in the club during a raid before, but he’d been warned that they happened. Some of the regulars said the cops picked on the club because they didn’t like people that veered from normal. He had a feeling it was more about the underage teens that came sometimes, or the whores that rarely looked like they wanted to be there.

When Peter first brought Stiles, they told him he had to have an ID – a good one. Not a real one, just good. The first few times they went, he had a good fake. Since then, Peter had a lawyer work on tracking down Stiles’s actual papers to get him a real ID. Things had been different with Peter, but he didn’t have it in him to notice or care or say boo about it. Restricted meals, meds three times a day, and this place. This club where Peter handed him off to strangers to get fucked.

He was strapped to the horse in the basement when the cops showed up. Bare except for leather straps and a collar, arms and legs tied to the ground, pressed face to groin to the top of the padded horse, ass out in the open. “Party is fucking over!” someone shouted from the direction of the stairs.

The man that had been fucking him pulled out when they came down the stairs and laughed. “Just let me untie him, relax,” the man told them. Stiles was flushed bright red. He’d gotten used to the guys here seeing him like that, spacing out. Suddenly he was very aware of how he must look. Someone passed him a robe as they pulled him off of the contraption, and he hauled it around his bony shoulders, making a beeline to the couch.

He spaced out for a moment, but suddenly a familiar face was in front of him again. Derek, crouching in front of him in a brown police officer’s uniform. Stiles looked much different than the last time they’d seen one another. For one, he was now bone-thin, a sallow paleness to match the hollow listlessness that hadn’t been there before either. It shouldn’t have surprised him that the man didn’t seem to recognize him.

“How old are you?” Derek asked.

Since the incident with the knife, Peter had to walk back his meds somewhat. Though he still felt hazy and detached, part of him also felt way too sober to handle this encounter. Stiles blinked at Derek slowly. He had a kind face. Stiles hadn’t been able to see that last time, what with him and Peter fighting. “I’m eighteen,” he assured him.

“Do you have ID on you?”

Stiles opened the robe slightly, looking down at his thin, naked body. He was littered with bruises, lovebites along his collarbone from Peter. “Let me check my pockets,” he deadpanned. He covered back up and leaned back into the couch.

He glanced across the room. Where the hell was Peter? He was supposed to be in the same room while Stiles was getting fucked. But Stiles couldn’t spot him in the crowd. Somewhere under the haze of medication, that made him feel a little sick, thinking that he’d been unsupervised on that horse. Then, finally, he spotted Peter standing behind an officer. “I think my, um, I think my boyfriend...”

“Your boyfriend? Which one is your boyfriend?” Derek asked, looking around as well.

Right. Derek knew Peter. Stiles’s thoughts kept running off on him, getting lost wherever they went. “It’s me,” he said, and Derek looked confused until Stiles clarified, “It’s Stiles. We met. You’re Peter’s nephew.” He watched the recognition dawn slowly over Derek’s face, melting into something like horror. Stiles could practically see him mentally tallying the pounds Stiles had lost since then.

“Stiles, I’m sorry, I didn’t – you look...” Derek obviously didn’t know how to finish that statement, so he cast around until he spotted Peter in the crowd. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

Stiles watched as he walked over to Peter, the two of them exchanging tense words probably bordering on growls. Peter handed him what Stiles assumed was his ID, and Derek glared at it like he could make it fake through willpower alone. Finally, he came back to Stiles, the fury on his expression fading back into that same gentle expression he’d worn before.

Having Peter in the picture made Stiles feel safer and more nervous at the same time. Well, as nervous as he could get. With all the drugs he was on, nervous was just an uneasy feeling in his stomach that was easily confused with being hungry, which he always was. Peter had taken care of the ID. Now Stiles just had to make sure he didn’t say anything stupid or incriminating.

“How are you doing tonight?” Derek asked, crouched in front of him again.

Peter was staring at him. Stiles could feel it. “I’m fine,” he mumbled. He was slouched against the arm of the couch, eyes glazed over a bit.

“Do you and Peter come here a lot?” Derek shifted so he was between Peter and Stiles.

“We come here sometimes. Not too much. Not… not very long.” He’d only been eighteen for two months now, after all.

“How long have you and Peter been romantically involved, Stiles?” Derek asked, voice friendly.

“We didn’t do anything before I was eighteen,” Stiles answered immediately, the answer practiced.

Derek frowned, and Stiles wondered if he could hear the lie. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it if he did. Wasn’t like he could prove it. “Do you like coming to places like this?” Derek pressed.

This would be easier if Derek was an asshole. If he didn’t look like he was sensing every bit of distress Stiles had buried under the drugs.

Stiles rubbed at his face. “I dunno, I – can I talk to him? Peter? I don’t know what I’m...” He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He was spaced out on drugs, half dissociated from the fucking, and fucking starving. As Stiles let the self-pity set in, he felt his eyes go watery.

“Don’t know what you’re – what, Stiles?”

“Please leave me alone,” Stiles murmured. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You’re not in trouble, Stiles. I just want to make sure you’re safe. I’m here to help you.”

The whole situation was totally overwhelming. Stiles tried to get a look at Peter around Derek, but didn’t have it in him to move that much. He felt himself starting to get flustered, but it was muted, easy to redirect. Derek was trying to get him in trouble. Stiles should be angry with him. His jaw tightened, and Stiles seemed to pull himself together somewhat, wiping at his eyes. “I don’t need any help,” he said, voice firm with upset, if not with actual conviction. “I’m safe. I’m here with my boyfriend. He keeps me safe.”

“Are those bruises from him?” Derek asked.

Stiles finally met the officer’s gaze and seemed to waver for just a second. How could he make this man understand how much he could mess Stiles’s shit up right now? “I live with him,” he said. “And I want to go home.” It was the only home he had to go to. Surely Derek could understand that.

“Okay,” Derek said quietly. “I understand.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he at least sounded like he was backing off. “You can go home as soon as we’re done asking questions.”

Stiles relaxed. He could go home. This whole disaster of a night would be over, and Peter would be pleased that he didn’t fuck up talking to his cop nephew.

Derek glanced over his shoulder toward Peter, who was being questioned by another officer. Stiles could tell he was listening to them, though. Derek had to know it, too. “Do you like coming here?” he asked anyway.

His stomach hurt. The meds made him hungry. It was why Peter started tracking his meals. “That doesn’t matter,” he breathed. He liked when Peter was happy. Peter liked this place. It was as simple as that. “It’s not about me.” Stiles could no longer conceptualize how fucked up that was. He was getting fucked by multiple men, and it wasn’t about him.

From across the room, Peter cast a warning look at Stiles, then followed an officer toward the stairs, maybe to get something from the locker they’d left their things in. Stiles looked back to Derek and opened his mouth to speak. Derek held up one finger for him to wait, listening. After a moment he nodded. “Stiles, this is about you. Do you enjoy coming here?”

“Do you have any food?” Stiles whispered urgently.

Derek looked heartbroken. “I don’t. Are you hungry? When’s the last time you ate?”

Stiles hugged himself and deflated a little. “I ate this morning,” he sighed. It wasn’t a good idea to eat before a fucking like this anyway. It was now past midnight, though. Maybe Peter would give him a snack for being good with Derek.

“This morning?”

“My stomach hurts. Can I go home now?” Stiles pushed. “Where did Peter go?”

Derek shook his head and moved to sit on the other side of him on the couch. “Not yet. I have a few more questions. Can I ask why you only ate this morning?”

Stiles made a childish whining noise at the prospect of more questions. In many ways, being with Peter had regressed him, made him more childlike than the 17-year-old the man had picked up. His face flushed red, knowing the only answer he could give. “I just got fucked for two hours,” he muttered. “You don’t really want to eat before that, you know?” He eyed Derek skeptically and snorted. “No, I guess you probably don’t.” A built, butch man in uniform. Not exactly the type.

“No, I don’t,” Derek agreed. “I do know that you’re very, very skinny. Your health should come before… this.” Derek cast a look around the basement.

“I’m fine,” Stiles insisted again. He knew he’d lost weight, but he was so drugged up and focused on appeasing Peter that he didn’t realize just how drastic it was. Now that Stiles was thinking about food, though, it was hard to think about anything else. His stomach gurgled.

“You know you can talk to me. Right, Stiles? I’m here to help you, and if you tell me you’re here against your will, I can get you away. All you have to do is tell me. Does he make you come here?”

“He loves me, okay?” Stiles answered frantically. “Peter takes care of me. Please.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Derek looked frustrated, but he kept his expression kind. “You won’t get -” He stopped talking and looked toward the stairs.

Peter came back down the stairs, sans police escort, bag slung over his shoulder. He stared at Stiles expectantly, and Stiles felt his stomach clench. Speaking more loudly, Stiles switched gears. “Look, I just want to go home. We weren’t doing anything wrong. I want to go home. I don’t want any more questions.” There. Peter would like that.

Derek’s shoulders sagged. “No more questions,” he agreed quietly. He stood and moved back between the two of them, his back to Peter. “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Stiles,” he said. He pulled something from the breast pocket of his jacket, then stretched his hand forward to shake, a business card tucked carefully into the palm of his hand.

Stiles eyed the card like it might catch fire. Part of him wanted to throw it back in Derek’s face, tell him he was an idiot. He loved Peter, and Peter loved him. Thankfully, there was a part of him that was a little smarter. It knew, deep down, that he would probably need that number someday. He put his hand in Derek’s and shook, taking the card carefully and slipping it into the pocket of his robe. He would have to be careful, getting it into his clothes, then into a suitable hiding place. If Peter found it, he would be furious. “Thank you,” he murmured. After a moment’s hesitation, he got up and walked back to Peter, tucking himself immediately against the man’s side. Like an obedient dog. These days, that was all he was to the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: medical abuse, drugging, food control/intentional starvation, rape, non-consensual bondage, Stockholm Syndrome, abuse
> 
> There's a light at the end of the tunnel now - Officer Hale is on the case!


	19. Errand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles collapses in the grocery store, and Derek is first on the scene.

Grocery shopping was a spectacularly cruel chore for Stiles, who got to eat so little of what he bought these days. Peter had told him to get his chores done before he ate today, so there had been no breakfast. Stiles walked to the store, even though it was nearly two miles away. Peter wanted him to keep up with his exercise, even though he could no longer run.

Standing in the produce aisle, staring blearily at the pears, Stiles felt his head start to swim violently. The next thing he knew, a startled-looking store clerk was standing over him, sirens wailing outside, not far off.

Shit. Peter was going to be furious.

People were trying to talk to him, but he hadn’t quite gotten his senses back in order. Then the clerk looked up and said, “Oh, thank god.”

And because the universe hated him, it was Officer Derek Hale coming down the beverage aisle toward him, asking, “What happened?”

The store clerk answered for him, which Stiles was somewhat grateful for. “He just collapsed. I saw it on the CCTV. He just crumpled.”

Feeling the need to offer his own version of an explanation, Stiles simply mumbled, “I dunno.” He tried to sit up, his head swam, and he was back on the floor again. Derek knelt next to him and kept a hand on his shoulder to keep him from trying again.

It didn’t take long before there were paramedics there, too, forcing everyone around him to step back, give them room to work. A blonde woman flashed a light in his eyes. “Do you have any medical conditions?”

Stiles blinked up at her and said, “Um,” because he wasn’t sure if Peter’s vague determinations about his mental state counted as medical conditions.

“Are you on any medication?”

He nodded his head, and the room spun.

“What medications?”

Stiles closed his eyes. “Um, I don’t remember what they’re called.”

“Open your eyes, please. How many medications?”

Stiles opened his eyes. “Three.”

“What do the medications do?”

Fuck, he was going to fuck this up. He just knew it. “Um, one is to help me calm down.”

“And the others?”

Stiles just shook his head.

“Who prescribed the medications?”

Stiles felt like he was underwater. “I don’t know?”

Derek stepped into his field of view again. “When is the last time you ate?” Derek asked.

Right. Derek knew to ask. Stiles glanced away. “Yesterday.” He wondered what Derek thought of him, seeing him like this. He felt fucking pathetic in a way he’d never planned to let himself become.

Another paramedic came over with a gurney, and they got him into the back of an ambulance. Stiles was thinking maybe he’d pretend to pass out again to avoid further questions when he saw Derek climbing into the back of the ambulance after him. He was pretty sure Derek was a werewolf, so there would be no fooling him.

“How’re you feeling, Stiles?” Derek asked. The blonde paramedic got in with them, too, leaving her partner to drive the ambulance.

“I’m okay,” Stiles assured him, though he could hear that he still sounded out of it. “I dunno what happened. I just got dizzy.” The paramedic took his hand and pricked his finger.

“You got dizzy because you haven’t eaten since yesterday, Stiles,” Derek told him, all concern and gentle tones of voice. “Your blood sugar dropped, and you fainted.” The paramedic shot Derek a look, and he told her, “I was a paramedic before I joined the force.”

Everything felt too slow and too fast at the same time, and Stiles couldn’t focus. “I have to call him,” he said glumly, already skipping ahead to the next steps without dealing with the situation at hand.

“You can call him from the hospital, okay? I promise.”

“What am I going to tell him? I don’t want to get in trouble.” The words just slipped out, said more to himself than to Derek, forgetting for a minute who he was talking to.

Derek frowned and leaned closer. “What would you get into trouble for, Stiles?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on Stiles’s face, pleading. “Please talk to me. I want to help you.”

“Anemic,” the paramedic said, seemingly to herself. Stiles cringed. He knew how bad things had gotten, on some level, but he didn’t want to think about it.

“I don’t want to say something wrong,” he sighed. “I’m supposed to make things easier. I don’t want him to get mad. I was supposed to get groceries, and instead he’s gonna have to come get me...” His voice caught as his ramble ramped slowly into a vague sort of panic. It all felt tamped down, though. There, but not.

“Stiles,” Derek said, a bit more firmly. “You fainted today because you’re not being fed properly.” He placed a hand on Stiles’s forearm. “Anything you tell me can be kept between us. Now, why haven’t you eaten today? Did you choose not to eat?”

Stiles refused to look him in the eyes. They were too kind, too concerned. “No, I just… I just didn’t, okay? I wasn’t…” He was about to say he wasn’t hungry, but that wasn’t true, and Derek would hear the lie. “I’m hungry. I know I’m hungry.” The paramedic was shooting Derek a look right over Stiles’s body, but Stiles couldn’t guess what for.

It didn’t matter, because they arrived at the hospital then, and it was another flurry of activity as they got him checked in and moved to a bed. It wasn’t very private, five beds in a room separated by curtains. They let him keep his street clothes on and hooked him up to an IV before taking blood.

The nurse kept asking questions he didn’t know the answers to. Insurance? Fuck if he knew. Medical history? Stiles hadn’t been to a doctor – other than the house call Peter had arranged – since he was sixteen in juvie. More questions about the medications, about the size and shape and how often he took them. Stiles could remember some of it, but not all of it, and that made them ask even more questions.

Finally, they gave him a tray of food: a ham sandwich, jello, carrots, and apple slices. Stiles was already halfway through the sandwich when Derek finally appeared at the foot of his bed.

“I hear the food isn’t half bad here,” he commented, pulling a chair up next to the bed. He hesitated, then pressed on. “I need to ask again why you haven’t eaten yet today when you’re obviously hungry.”

Stiles’s chewing slowed only slightly. He was fucking starving, after all. Literally. He didn’t answer.

Derek sighed. “You said you were on medications. Peter gives them to you, right?” He cocked his head to the side, putting himself more directly in Stiles’s line of sight. “Does he control what you eat, too?”

Stiles hadn’t been planning on answering any of these questions, but Derek had guessed the truth anyway. He figured there was no avoiding it. Stiles huffed around his mouthful of sandwich. “He’s just trying to take care of me,” he insisted. “When I started on the meds, they made me eat too much. I’m not so good at turning down food, so he makes sure I don’t like, get fat and shit.”

It was an overly simplistic explanation, but truthful enough that it wouldn’t set off those werewolf senses. Peter got off on the control, and Stiles knew it. He liked to see Stiles’s bones. Picking up a carrot, Stiles crunched down on it. “Look, I probably fucked up a meal or something, and that’s why I got dizzy. It’s never happened before.” It hadn’t happened before, but he was thinner than he’d ever been. The issues the doctors were looking for with his blood tests weren’t short-term issues.

Derek’s jaw clenched, and Stiles could tell he was holding back anger. “This isn’t from one missed meal, Stiles,” he said, and to his credit, he kept his voice soft and level. “You’re anemic. That doesn’t happen by accident to a boy your age. Your body is shutting down because of lack of nutrition. If Peter cared about you, he would be feeding you regular, healthy meals. He wouldn’t be giving you drugs that a doctor hasn’t prescribed.”

Stiles set the half-eaten carrot down, staring at his food tray with his brow furrowed. He didn’t want to believe any of this. “I have a prescription,” he argued quietly. He’d never met the doctor that prescribed them. Peter said it was a friend of his, a psychiatrist.

“Stiles, if you lose ten more pounds, you’ll weigh as much as a twelve-year-old boy,” Derek said.

For some reason, that struck him the hardest. Framing it in terms of age. When Stiles first met Peter, he was barely seventeen. Now he was eighteen, and Peter wanted him smaller – was making him smaller. Maybe Stiles had gotten too old for him. But he didn’t like that explanation either. That would mean Peter liked them young, and that stirred up way too many red flags.

He cleared his throat. “The doctors will tell him when he gets here. He probably didn’t know,” Stiles tried to reason. “He’s a psychologist, not a dietitian. He probably didn’t know.”

Derek was quiet a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and dark. “He knows what he’s doing to you,” he said. “You’re starving. Peter’s a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. _I _can tell just from looking at you, so he sure as hell knows you’re starving. Stiles, if you go home with him, and he keeps doing what he’s doing to you...”

Stiles looked up and met Derek’s eyes. They were pleading, scared for him. And for a moment, Stiles looked afraid, too. The kind of afraid that made him want to run away, only to remember the last time he’d tried to run.

“He’s killing you,” Derek said.

Stiles’s bony hands tightened around the edge of the tray. Maybe it was that he was overdue for his meds, but Stiles felt a moment of clarity, of realization that Derek was right.

The moment he thought it, he heard a voice from the other end of the room, saying, “Thank you, ma’am – third bed?” The fear on Stiles’s face changed, and this was a helpless panic. Without thinking, Stiles pushed the tray away from himself and sat up, more alert.

“You need to go,” he told Derek in a quick, harsh whisper. “Please, you need to go.”

And then Peter was standing behind Derek, a dangerous smile on his lips. “I agree,” he drawled. “You need to go.” Derek turned to look at him, and Peter’s eyes flashed red.

Derek stood. “Right. I’m sure the doctors have filled you in on the problem here.”

Peter moved in and took the tray of food, placing it on the table next to the bed. “And I’m sure they’ve filled you in as well,” he said, carding a hand through Stiles’s hair. The way Stiles leaned into Peter’s hand was instinctual. As soon as Peter was in the room, he acted more like a well-trained pet than a person. “He’s anorexic. Obviously. He’s had a bad week. We’re working on it.”

There was no mistaking the fury on Derek’s face. He turned to Stiles, his expression wordlessly pleading, and Stiles knew what he wanted. Stiles had to ask, had to tell Derek that he wanted to get away from Peter. But even thinking the words scared him. He could never say them, sitting there next to the man. Either Peter would kill him or he would let him go, then track him down, then kill him. And where did Stiles have to go anyway?

Derek shook his head and left.

Stiles felt his heart racing a little, letting him know that he really was overdue for his medication. Feeling anything at all these days meant it was time for another dose. Once Derek’s footsteps had faded, he looked up at Peter. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. Are you mad?” There was a bruise forming at his temple where he’d fallen in the store, matching ones on his knees and one elbow. “I was just getting groceries like you asked.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Peter said, loud enough for anyone around to hear, but he was eyeing the food tray. “You’re a good boy. You didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t you hear the doctor? You’re anemic.”

Stiles nodded. Anemia explained the fainting as well as how spectacularly he was bruising, though he hadn’t even noticed that. Stiles was used to bruises. Peter liked to see them.

Peter sat in the same chair Derek had been occupying a moment before, still petting his face and hair. “What did Derek say?” he asked, voice hushed now. “Why was he in here?”

“He was the one that showed up at the store,” he explained. “I guess he was just closest. He got there before the ambulance and everything. He asked a lot of questions, and I was really out of it...” Stiles knew he’d probably said something wrong. But he’d been foggy from fainting, so maybe Peter wouldn’t be mad about it.

“Questions like what?” Peter pressed.

“I told him I didn’t eat since yesterday. I had to tell them I was on prescriptions.”

“You’re on necessary prescriptions for anxiety and PTSD,” Peter said, an edge of irritation in his voice that made Stiles recognize that he’d implied something was wrong with the meds. “What else?”

“They asked why I wasn’t eating,” Stiles admitted, cringing. “I don’t think I said anything bad. I told them I just didn’t. I told them the meds made me eat too much.” He was skating around the truth. He knew some of what he’d said was punishable.

“Did you eat that?” Peter asked, nodding at the food tray.

Stiles’s face crumpled in guilt. He looked down and nodded. He had known Peter wouldn’t like it, but he’d been so fucking hungry. “They told me I had to. I’m sorry.”

“Of course they did,” Peter growled. He waved a hand. “It’s fine. We’ll include it in your daily intake.” Which meant that Stiles probably wouldn’t be eating anything else for the rest of the day. The disappointment must have shown on Stiles’s face, because Peter was frowning at him. “I thought you were stronger than this. I thought you could handle this,” he sighed.

Chest tight with panic he’d barely been allowed to feel in months, Stiles rushed to insist, “No, I’m okay. I – maybe I just need to take some vitamins or something. Then this won’t happen again.” He was talking too quickly, struggling to keep his voice low.

“This won’t happen again,” Peter told him, tone grave.

Stiles sucked in an unsteady breath and closed his eyes. “Can we go home? I think I need my meds.” He knew, on some level, what they were doing. But Stiles also knew there was no way he could stomach their situation sober.

“I’ll talk to the doctor about getting you discharged,” Peter agreed. He bent forward, a hand on the back of Stiles’s head as he kissed his lips. Against them, he murmured, “You’re my good boy, Stiles. Nobody is going to take you from me. Ever.”

And all Stiles could think was, _of course – who would want me now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: in-depth discussions of food control/forced starvation


	20. Emptiness

Stiles ended up on the floor of the shower, but he couldn’t say how. He didn’t think he’d fallen – nothing hurt, and he was sitting, legs crossed and arms wrapped around his knees. It was more like he’d just sat down, but he didn’t remember doing it.

Tipping his head up, the water rained down, catching in his eyelashes, trickling back into his ears. Warm, but getting colder. It always got colder.

Through a small series of slow-motion and near herculean efforts, he got out of the shower and turned the water off, stopping to lean on the bathroom counter to steady himself. He hadn’t even gotten a towel yet, was dripping on the bathmat and into the sink.

Stiles felt like he was deep under water, pressure from all sides, heaviness, and not really sure which way was up anymore. He stared down at his own hands, the knuckles protruding grotesquely under the sagging skin.

Looking up at the mirror, Stiles tried to reconcile the image in front of him with the person he’d always pictured himself to be. Scrawny, sure, but nothing like this _thing_. His fingers skittered down his ribs, counting them. Peter liked to do that: count his ribs. He did it with his tongue sometimes. Stiles could see every one, pinned tight under his flesh, could see the curl under the bottom rib where it gave way to a caved-in stomach. Protruding hipbones.

Then there was his face, the sucked-in quality of his cheeks, the too-jagged arch of his cheekbones. Stiles leaned forward until his forehead was pressed to the mirror and stared into his own eyes, deep brown and darker still for the purpling circles under them. A skull, he realized. His face looked like nothing but a skull with deep pits where his eyes should have been and a jaw so exposed it might snap off at the lightest touch.

“You’re not me,” the skull whispered at him. “You’re not what I look like.”

Then Stiles was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, still naked, still not dry except where the water had soaked into the bathmat. The door creaked open, and Peter stood staring down at him. Stiles dropped his head back against the bathroom cabinet with a thunk. His knees were to his chest, held loosely. Peter was saying something, but he didn’t hear it.

“I had a dream last night that you buried me,” Stiles said, slurring. “Next to a tree stump.”

Peter was crouching in front of him, touching his face, his skull, tracing the bones with his fingers. “What happened then?” he asked.

“I was just in the ground,” he answered. “Worms ate me.”

“Is that what you think of me? That I’d kill you?”

“Didn’t you?” Stiles asked, confused.

Peter sat and pulled Stiles into his lap, stroking his hair and kissing his forehead. “Not yet.”

“Soon?” Stiles snuggled in against Peter’s chest.

Instead of answering, Peter picked up Stiles’s bony hand and laced their fingers together. “You’re my pack, aren’t you, Stiles? You’re not a wolf, but you’re still mine. My pack. A pack with a spark is a powerful thing.”

“Not a spark,” Stiles protested. He stared down at their joined hands. “Just look.”

Peter lifted their hands, turning them slowly, inspecting them. “What am I looking at?”

“Exactly,” he sighed. “Nothing to see.”

Pulling away enough that he could stare into Stiles’s face, Peter asked, “Sweetheart? Do you know something I don’t know?”

Stiles smiled, because he did. He knew where the tree stump was. Maybe not in this world, this nightmare he lived during the day, but he went there nearly every night in his dreams. He knew it had power, and he knew how to control it. At least, he would if he could access that glow he had access to in his sleep.

“Stiles,” Peter pressed. “What do you know?”

Huffing a heavy breath, Stiles changed the subject. “Daddy, I am so tired today. I think I’m confused.”

Peter stood with Stiles still in his arms, effortless. “Let’s get you dressed.”

Stiles wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck, chin resting on his shoulder as the man carried him across the hall. He looked at his hands behind Peter’s back and narrowed his eyes at them. For just a moment, he saw a hint of a glow. He felt his head clear, just a little, like the glow had burned some of the medication away the same way it had burned off the roots in the tree trunk.

“Stiles, what are you laughing at?” Peter sighed.

Stiles hadn’t realized he was laughing, and he reeled it in. “Nothing. Just a joke in my head.”

“Can you tell me?” Peter set him down on his bed so Stiles was sitting on the edge of it, staring up at the werewolf with a dazed, placid sort of expression.

“I already forgot it,” Stiles told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: dissociation, drugged state, discussions of character death (hypothetical)
> 
> Next chapter is the turning point for the story - cast your bets for how it goes!


	21. Emergency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One bite changes everything.

People were screaming. There was someone crouched over Roy, trying to put pressure on the gory mess that was his dick, but nobody seemed willing to even look at Stiles for more than a few horrified seconds. There was blood dripping down his chin. He wore nothing but a blood-spattered jock strap, crouched on the floor of the private room they’d been locked in, and Stiles was trying to get his head around what the fuck had even happened.

Peter had told him that morning that they were doing something special tonight. He and Roy, another regular at the club, were going to trade for the evening. Private rooms. Peter would be off fucking a younger boy while Roy did whatever he wanted, alone in a room with Stiles.

Roy had been rough. Stiles had been freaked out enough about the whole thing without someone yelling at him and shoving him around, forcing him onto his knees.Stiles tried to bail, tried to get away from the man. He’d said no. And Roy had said, _Open your mouth_.

And now Roy’s dick was hanging from the stump by a thin strip of flesh.

Stiles scooted toward the door of the room, toward the pile of clothes he’d left there. His phone was in the pocket of his jeans, and he retrieved it with shaking hands. God, there was blood all over them. He’d stashed Derek’s card in the back of his phone case, so it took him a few tries to get it out. A few more tries to dial the numbers right.

The club was clearing out quickly, and he heard sirens in the background. Stiles pressed the phone to his ear and tried to breathe.

“Officer Hale speaking.”

For a moment, all Stiles could do was hyperventilate into the phone. There was a commotion in the background on the line, but his breaths were heavy into the speaker. “It’s Stiles,” he got out finally. “Stiles Stilinski. I...”

“Stiles. Are you okay?” Derek asked urgently.

The reality of the situation was setting in, and his voice sounded thick with emotion. “I’m at the club, and I – I don’t know what happened. I don’t know, I just. I panicked. I think. I think I’m in some trouble.”

Derek’s voice stayed level. Was that some sort of werewolf superpower, staying calm like that? “What kind of trouble?”

He looked up through the open door. He could see the stairwell on the other side of the basement. He saw Peter walking toward the stairs. The man glanced back at him, shook his head, then left. Stiles’s eyes went wide and he choked on a sob. “Please, please, you have to come help me,” he begged. “There’s other police here.”

“Shh, Stiles. Hey. Just breathe,” Derek coaxed.

Paramedics were rushing into the room. One stopped to ask him, “Are you hurt?” And he shook his head, confused before realizing they were asking because he was covered in blood.

Once the paramedics had all moved on to work on Roy, Stiles scooted out around the door frame, keeping the pile of clothing with him. “I think I hurt someone,” he admitted, voice cracking. Yes, obviously he’d hurt someone. Maybe even killed him. There had been so much blood. Was that enough to kill someone?

“I’m on my way, Stiles. I promise.”

“Please hurry.”

“Listen to me. I’m in my car. I told you I’d help you, right? I’m coming to help you.”

“The cops are coming. I dunno what… what am I supposed to tell them? I didn’t want to – I told him no. I told him to stop, and he wouldn’t, and I just...” He just bit. He panicked and he bit.

“Okay, if anybody asks you to talk to them, tell them Officer Hale is on his way.”

An officer came down the stairs, eyes landing on Stiles immediately. Of course. He was practically naked and covered in blood from his chin to his chest. “Officer Hale is on his way,” he said loudly at the woman before she could question him.

“I’m here,” Derek said in his ear. “I’m going to hang up, okay? But I’m here. Stay where you are. I’m coming to find you.”

“Okay,” Stiles whispered, and the line went dead. He lowered his phone, cradling it in his bloody hands between his knees. The officer didn’t try to question him, but also didn’t let him out of her sight, eyes sweeping through the basement as she reviewed the scene

Derek came down the stairs a few minutes later in mostly street clothes, jeans and a black t-shirt with just his uniform jacket over it. He showed the female officer his badge and nodded toward Stiles. “I know him. I’ve been working this one.”

She nodded. “Just make sure he gets a statement in, yeah?” The paramedics wheeled Roy out on a gurney toward the stairs, and she followed them out.

Just like he had the last time at the club, Derek squatted in front of Stiles. “Let’s get you dressed, okay?” he said softly.

Giving a shaky nod, Stiles followed Derek’s suggestion and pulled on his jeans, then a hoodie, zipped up over some of the blood. “Peter left,” he told Derek, sounding disbelieving. “He saw me and he just left me here.” Where was he supposed to go now? Jail? He had nothing.

“That fucking psycho,” Derek muttered, looking down and gritting his teeth. He looked up at Stiles and forced his expression into something kinder. “You deserve a hell of a lot better, Stiles.” He stood and offered Stiles a hand, pulling him to his feet. He kept a hand on his arm to hold him steady.

Stiles had to lean on him. It had only been two weeks since the grocery store, but he’d lost more weight since then. He was just over a hundred pounds now.

“You’re not going to be in trouble,” Derek told him. “They’ll want to ask questions, but I’ll be right there with you and get you out of here as fast as we can, okay?”

“Out to where?” Stiles asked, desolate.

“My place,” Derek said immediately. “You can get cleaned up and crash on the futon.” He paused, then added, “Unless there’s somewhere else you want to go?”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t know what Peter’s going to do now. I don’t… what am I going to do? I don’t have anything.” There was a low level of panic there, but it was mostly a hollow sounding doom in his voice. It felt like his life was over. It happened so fast.

Derek grasped him by both shoulders and waited until Stiles looked up at his face before he spoke. “You have me. I told you I was going to help you, remember? I’m going to help you. You don’t need him. You need help.”

Derek lead him upstairs where he called out to a deputy by name – Parrish – and introduced Stiles. There were a lot of questions, and Stiles got lost in them a few times. The first time, Derek stepped in and said, “That guy – the guy that’s been bringing him here? He’s been starving him for months. Got him on some really heavy medications, too. Prescription, but not exactly ethical medicine.”

Officer Parrish asked Stiles to confirm that, and he did, even though it felt like betrayal. Then it was a lot of questions about Peter, which he hedged around and then got lost in, forgetting what half-truths he’d given so far. He had to stop, pressing his temples between the heels of his hands.

“Are you feeling alright, Stiles?”

And Stiles said the first thing that came into his mind as he picked his head up and looked at Officer Parrish. “I can still taste the blood.” The blood, the cock, the fear. He could taste it all.

Derek gave Parrish a pleading look. “I have to get him out of here,” he said.

Parrish pressed his lips into a thin line, giving Derek a look right back. They seemed to battle there, silently, all eyebrows and clenching jaws. Finally, Parrish sighed and turned back to Stiles. “Okay, I have to ask one more question, Stiles. What happened to Roy?”

Stiles hugged his arms around himself. “I told him I wanted to leave. He made me get on my knees and open my mouth. I panicked, and I bit down.”

Parrish watched Stiles for a moment, then nodded, looking back to Derek. “Alright. He’ll have to come back to the station in the morning for a full statement.”

“I’ll call when we’re on our way,” Derek assured him.

He wrapped an arm around Stiles’s shoulders, keeping him steady, and steered him toward the front door of the club. “I have a spare toothbrush with your name on it,” he promised.

Derek helped Stiles into his car, a black Mustang, then got in and started the engine. None of this felt real. It felt like falling. “Do you think Roy… do you think he’s going to be okay? I didn’t kill him, did I?” This was all difficult enough without adding murder into the mix.

Derek frowned. “I don’t know. He’s going to be less some equipment, for sure. But it’s his own fault. You said no, and he didn’t listen. It was self-defense.”

“There was so much blood,” Stiles told him. He wiped tears from his face, and it smeared the blood around his mouth. “I didn’t think you could bleed that much without dying.”

With a slow exhale, Derek clicked on his turn signal and turned them toward the south end of town. “There’s a main vein there. Bleeds a lot. But he might be okay. The paramedics were there quickly.” Right. People got their fucking arms chopped off and lived to talk about it, didn’t they?

Derek twisted slightly, reaching around behind his seat. He came back with a bottle of water. “Here. It’s not cold, but it might help the taste.”

Stiles took the water and mumbled a little thanks, unscrewing the cap with shaking hands. He took a small sip, then felt suddenly, ravenously thirsty. He gulped down a third of the bottle, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Most of the blood came away with it.

“I can’t really believe this is happening,” he told Derek, setting the bottle in the cup holder. “I’ve been with Peter for a year now. I don’t have a plan or anything for what to do without him.” It scared the shit out of Stiles, how complacent and careless he’d gotten. He always had a plan.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said softly.

“Maybe once he knows I’m not in trouble, I can go back,” Stiles suggested.

Derek looked at him, face creased with worry. “I – Stiles...” He cleared his throat and looked at the road again. “Can we talk more about that tomorrow? About you and Peter.”

Stiles could tell Derek wasn’t comfortable with the topic. He pulled a knee up to his chest and hugged it. “Yeah, alright.”

“You can stay at my place as long as you need,” Derek added. “You don’t have to worry about that, okay?”

The offer surprised him, but it made his panic settle a bit. “Okay,” Stiles agreed.

The rest of the drive was quiet, Derek switching on the radio, leaving it low to fill the silence. They pulled up in front of a brownstone apartment building, three stories, and Stiles felt his heart rate jump.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, staring out at the building. “You hardly know me. I’m just some kid your uncle’s fucking.” His mind started roaming to paranoid places. This had happened to him before – out of the frying pan, into the fire. What if he’d left Peter only to find something worse?

Derek turned and looked at Stiles, studying him for a moment. “When I first saw you in Peter’s house, you had the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said. He looked out the windshield at the brownstone. “You looked like nobody had ever been nice to you.”

He’d looked that sad, that long ago? Stiles liked to think that he and Peter were happy together, but it was hard to figure out why. There were moments, little glimpses of affection and love that made Stiles feel like he was on the fucking moon. But mostly? Mostly he was just afraid he’d do something wrong.

Derek rubbed a hand over his jaw. “And I… I know how Peter can be. I do,” he added. He looked away and opened his car door. Derek hesitated, half out of the car. “I could pay for a hotel room if you’d rather be alone,” he offered.

“I’m alright here,” Stiles agreed quickly.

Pity. He could deal with pity. It wasn’t great, but it was safe, and he needed safety. Stiles got out of the car and closed the door behind him, staring up at the building and waiting for Derek to come around. At least there was one silver lining here: “Can I get something to eat?” he asked.

“Of course,” Derek agreed. “You can shower, brush your teeth, and I’ll find some clothes that will fit you. I can order a pizza or something?” He offered an arm for Stiles to hold onto and led him inside.

“I love pizza,” Stiles answered immediately. By the look on his face, he had surprised himself with the excitement in his voice. He flushed and went quiet again, awkward.

“Me too,” Derek told him, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: violence, blood and gore, genital mutilation (not a main character), discussions of sexual assault, discussions of forced starvation and medication, Stockholm Syndrome, drugged state, mild dissociation
> 
> A lot of people were hoping for blood, and you got it! ...just not Peter's at this point. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.
> 
> I edited and re-edited this chapter several times and in the end have just come to peace with the fact that there's a LOT of chaotic energy here. But I feel like that's just a product of Stiles's perspective and his whole little world being upended.
> 
> I may not be able to make a post tomorrow due to real life (ugh) but there will be one Wednesday for sure.


	22. Evacuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles eats pizza: a love story

Derek’s apartment was on the second floor, and it was pretty small compared to what he was used to at Peter’s. Stiles was glad he hadn’t let the man buy him a hotel room. This wasn’t some rich psychologist-turned-professor who could afford to keep playthings in his giant, plush home. This was a police officer. He was probably comfortable, but rent in Beacon Hills was no joke.

Stiles toed off his shoes by the door. He didn’t even have socks under them. “Bathroom down the hall?” he supposed, pointing to the only direction it could really be. He waited for Derek to nod in the affirmative before heading that way.

“Towels under the sink,” Derek called after him.

Stiles spent too long scrubbing at the blood, keeping at it long after the stain had left his skin. By the time he’d finished that, he felt exhausted, the adrenaline of the evening pairing with his constant weariness of medication and starvation. When he opened the bathroom door, a towel around his waist, a small stack of clothes was waiting for him on the floor outside the door. Sweats with a drawstring, a t-shirt, and a crew neck sweater that said ‘BHPD’ on the front.

After getting dressed, he came out into the living room, hair damp and messy. It had gotten a bit longer than he usually kept it. Peter liked to be able to haul him around by it. Derek had changed into sweats, too, and was parked on the couch, feet on the coffee table. There was a scuba diver in a cage on TV and plates, water glasses, and a roll of paper towels on the coffee table.

“Thanks for the clothes,” he said, rubbing at the side of his neck. Bruises were visible on his neck, a faint one on his cheek. “Shark week?” he supposed, hopeful. Peter never let him pick TV, always opting for some dull foreign film.

“No, but I think it’s a rerun from last year’s,” Derek said. “We can watch whatever you want.”

Stiles sat in a big comfy chair, which wasn’t quite facing the TV. He curled up in it sideways, though, knees up against his chest and back against the arm. Something nudged his arm, and he looked down to see the TV remote. He took it, but set it on the coffee table.

“Pizza should be here soon,” Derek said. “I wasn’t sure what you would like, so I got pepperoni. I got some bread sticks and chicken wings, too.”

Looking over his shoulder at Derek, Stiles smiled. “I’d probably eat dirt if you put cheese on it right now,” he admitted. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Lunch.” His shoulders were sharp under the clothes, arms skeletally thin where he’d pushed up the sleeves of the sweatshirt to his elbows. Even his bare feet looked thin.

After a moment, Derek asked, hesitant, “How are you doing?”

Stiles thought a moment, then sighed and shrugged, letting his forehead drop to his knees. “I dunno. Doesn’t feel real yet. He says he loves me, and then he just...” Clearly, Stiles was less fazed by the sexual assault and gore than by Peter’s abandonment.

“I think...” Derek started, then faltered. Then tried again. “I think Peter _said_ he loved you. And maybe he believed he did… But, Stiles, what he does to you, that’s not love. You don’t hurt people you love.”

Stiles picked up his head again and watched as Derek fidgeted. He knew, on some level, that Derek was right. Peter hurt him and starved him and scared the shit out of him. Drugged him. Messed with his head. Hell, Stiles had even tried to get away from him before. But this feeling? He felt adrift, not knowing what his next step was, after a year of knowing that Peter would take care of him, take care of everything. Tomorrow morning, he would wake up, and there would be no list on the fridge telling him what to do today. What the fuck would he do then?

His eyes felt hot, and Stiles found himself sniffling and wiping at them with the back of his hand before he could even start crying. “Yeah, maybe,” he mumbled.

The sound of a buzzer startled him, and Stiles jumped before he settled himself, realizing, “Pizza.”

Derek got up and went to the door. He returned with the box and a paper bag and set them out on the coffee table, taking a slice for himself. “You eat as much as you want, okay?” he said.

Stiles licked his lips as he watched Derek bite into the pizza. He’d noticed before that Derek was attractive, but had immediately banished the thought, almost afraid that Peter would read his thoughts. Stiles put the thought aside again, because the fear was still there.

Instead, he picked up a slice of pizza, bit in, and closed his eyes as he savored the flavor. Jesus. Even when Peter did feed him, he never let Stiles eat foods like this. Though he wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell the difference at this point, he was pretty sure this was next-level good pizza, too. A spongy crust, thick stringy cheese. He tore into the slice with gusto, eating the whole thing in four bites.

“Oh my god that’s good,” he muttered around the food in his mouth. He hesitated, then grabbed for a bread stick and bit into that, the garlic flavor exploding on his taste buds. “I missed pizza so much.” Stiles barely had the decency to grab a paper towel and wipe the grease from his hands before he picked up his glass of water.

“You can have pizza whenever you want,” Derek told him, grinning as he watched Stiles eat. He finished his own slice, and kept watching Stiles more than the TV. “Are those from him?” he asked after a while.

Stiles frowned in confusion until he realized that Derek was eyeing a bruise on his arm. He honestly couldn’t remember what it was from. It was just below his elbow, wrapped around the arm. Probably from being grabbed too roughly. It wasn’t fresh enough to be from Roy, and they hadn’t been at the club recently enough before tonight for it to be from another visit.

“Roy hit me a few times,” he said, “But most of them… I think most of them are from Peter.” It sounded pathetic now, admitting it to someone else. In the midst of it, Stiles had stopped thinking anything of bruises. First they were the sexy kind, and these just sort of fell into the same category. Peter got off on them, anyway. Stiles grabbed another slice and bit into it. “I bruise pretty easy,” he tried to justify. “I think it’s the anemia, maybe.”

Derek shifted back on the couch, looking uncomfortable. He hesitated, then blurted out, “I really don’t want you to go back to him.” Stiles turned toward him fully, surprised, and Derek pressed on through it. “I know it seems like it’s the only option, but it’s not. Somebody who loved you wouldn’t share you – not like that, anyway. And he wouldn’t leave you bruised and starving. Stiles, you’re free now. As long as you don’t go back, he can’t control you anymore.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say, just kept eating, and silence lapsed between them. The words terrified him. Just hearing them made him feel like he would be punished, like Peter would burst through the door any minute, saying this was all an elaborate test, and he’d tie Stiles to the bed. Cane his feet. Peter could find him, sniff him out. Hell, Derek’s was probably the first place he’d look.

“I’m sorry. I know I can’t make that decision for you,” Derek went on, sounding a little desperate. “But if you go back… I think he’ll kill you. I’m serious. I don’t know if you’ll survive what he’s doing to you much longer.”

Stiles knew Peter was no good, but he’d thrown his back-up plan out a long time ago. How could he make Derek understand that? He set down the crust and swallowed. His stomach felt uneasy about the whole thing.

“What if he comes after me?” he asked, almost a whisper, almost afraid to say it.

Derek sat up straighter. “I can protect you. I promise.”

Stiles hesitated, then said, “When I met Peter, I was a whore.” Maybe it wasn’t the best thing to go confessing to a cop, but whatever. Derek didn’t look surprised. “I mean, like, literally. I had this whole set-up on Craigslist. But I was saving up, y’know? When I turned eighteen, I was gonna get my own place, maybe go legit, get into porn or dance or something. But instead I met Peter. He was supposed to help me put money away at first, but then things got serious, and I just… I asked for the money once, and he wouldn’t give it to me. It’s in his name. I’ve got nothing.”

Derek frowned and nodded. “I think that’s why he took you in. It was easy for him to make himself the only person you needed. The only person you had.” Derek cringed, but continued. “You’re young and vulnerable, and he saw an opportunity. I’ve seen situations like this before, Stiles. He took advantage of you and made you think he was doing you good.”

Stiles tried to play those first few weeks with Peter through in his head, though it made his guts churn. Had there been signs that it could get this bad? Warnings? It was hard to pick them out from this far back. Maybe the first time he’d been punished. Or the first time Peter caned his feet, when Stiles told him to stop and Peter kept going until the soles were bloody and welted.

“Yeah, but what the fuck do I do now?” he asked, sounding miserable.

His stomach was in knots with anxiety, roiling and…

No, maybe that wasn’t anxiety.

“Stiles?”

Stiles lurched forward, a hand over his mouth, then jumped to his feet and ran back to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. A few seconds later, the sound of retching echoed down the hall.

He heard Derek in the hall saying, “Fuck.” A few moments later, there was a knock. “I’m sorry,” Derek said through the door. “I have a bad habit of shoving my foot in my mouth. You had a rough night, and I’m sorry if what I said made it worse.”

Derek apparently was thinking the same thing Stiles had thought at first – that his anxiety and trauma had gotten the best of him.

“Can I come in?” Derek asked. “I have water.”

Stiles had to wait a moment before he could answer, stomach doing its best to turn inside-out. “Yeah,” he rasped. This had happened to him before, when he was younger and homeless. In an odd way, it was a freeing feeling.

Derek stepped inside and set the water glass on the floor next to him.

Resting his forehead against the rim of the toilet, Stiles let out a weak, voiceless laugh. “I ate too much,” he explained, sounding deliriously happy about it. “I haven’t eaten that much in months.”

Derek hesitated, then laughed, too. “I should have started you off with chicken and rice or something,” he said.

Deciding that Derek didn’t need to stare at his puke, Stiles flushed the toilet, though he was pretty sure more would come. Two slices of pizza and a bread stick had done him in. A year ago, Stiles could have eaten the whole pizza himself.

Moving around him carefully, Derek sat on the edge of the tub and clasped his hands together between his knees. “You can eat anything you want. In the fridge or pantry, okay? But maybe start small.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then returned it to clasp the other.

Stiles nodded, smiling as he realized what Derek was doing. He was afraid to sound like he was controlling his food, like Peter did. Stiles looked exhausted, face pale and drawn, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “Small sounds better,” he agreed, closing his eyes.

“We’ll build you up to pizza,” Derek assured him, and it sounded like a long-term sort of commitment. Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“I did this once in juvie,” he said, instead of addressing it. “Hadn’t eaten a while and pigged out at dinner my first night in.” Maybe he shouldn’t have been recounting his criminal history to a police officer, but the damage was more or less done. His stomach clenched, and he quickly turned over the bowl, gagging up the last dredges of his meal. So much for getting a full stomach now that he was on his own. When he looked up, there was a hand towel and the spare toothbrush next to the water bottle.

“I’ll give you a minute,” Derek told him, patting his shoulder on his way back out of the bathroom.

It was a little while before everything was truly out of his system. Stiles cleaned himself up again, scrubbed the taste of puke from his mouth, and wiped his face clean. God, because obviously he’d needed this cherry on top of his miserable night.

Looking close to passing out, Stiles came back out to the living room to find Derek back on the couch, a glass bottle of soda in hand, and all of the food put away out of sight. Stiles skipped the chair and collapsed onto the opposite side of the couch. “You can go to bed if you need to,” he offered. “I think I want to fall asleep with the TV on, if that’s okay.” He didn’t relish the thought of being left alone in the dark with his own thoughts. Not tonight, at least. It had been a while since he slept without drugs, too.

Derek looked over at him thoughtfully. “Do you mind if I watch for a bit?” he asked. Once Stiles nodded, Derek smiled and slumped back on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. He sipped at his soda.

As tired as he was, it still felt odd to fall asleep without being knocked out on drugs. Stiles zoned out at the TV pretty well, though. He didn’t even notice Derek dozing off until he saw the soda bottle starting to tip out of his hand out of the corner of his eye. Stiles reached out quickly to catch it, plucking it by the neck from Derek’s hand and setting it on the coffee table.

Derek looked peaceful, propped up with his head tilted back on the couch, feet splayed haphazardly on the table. Without thinking about it, Stiles was already leaning across the couch. It was pretty easy to just rest his head on Derek’s thigh, lightly, and close his eyes. It was like he could pull the peace and calm right from him. Not like a werewolf pulling pain, where he got more and Derek got less. It was like a blanket that fit nicely over them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: aftermath of trauma, Stockholm Syndrome, discussions of abuse and forced starvation, puking


	23. Evaluation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek takes Stiles to the hospital where a familiar face is waiting to greet him.

When Stiles woke the next morning, he was in an unfamiliar bed – well, a futon – in a cramped room that looked like it was mostly meant to be an office and this whole ‘second bedroom’ thing was a major inconvenience to its normal operations. There was a desk against the wall, and the end of the futon, unfolded as it was, pressed right against the back of the chair so it would be impossible to pull it out. The decorations were sparse, a certificate for the police academy on one wall and a map of Beacon Hills on another.

It took him a moment to puzzle out his surroundings, remembering the disaster of the night before with a sinking sensation. Right. He’d bit someone’s goddamn dick off last night, been abandoned, and run off with Peter’s nephew. He’d pretty much exploded his entire life.

Stiles was still in the borrowed clothes from last night, and Derek had draped a light blanket over him. Crawling to the edge of the bed, he sat up and rubbed at his face, trying to settle the unsteady thudding of his heart. He felt hungover, both clearer than he had been in a while but also more sensitive, like his nerves were frayed. From outside, he heard Derek’s voice carrying down the hallway.

“Well, tough shit, Jordan. The kid needs to go to the hospital. You saw him. I tried to feed him last night and he puked everything up like a starved fucking dog. If you need to interview him so badly, you can meet us there.”

Dog comparisons aside, the fact that Derek was playing defense for him like this felt nice. Stiles really didn’t feel like going to a police precinct this morning, and getting poked and prodded by doctors was a very marginal improvement over that.

He stepped into the hall and found Derek standing in the kitchen in front of the toaster, which sprung moments after Stiles ambled into the room. “This is for you,” Derek told him. “I know it’s not pizza, but it’ll be easier to keep down.”

Stiles wondered if Derek had known to put the toast in before hearing him open his door because he had heightened hearing. Then, he realized, he could finally just ask.

“Derek, are you a werewolf?”

Derek turned around, eyebrows raised but not particularly startled looking. “He told you then?”

Stiles shrugged, looking a little ashamed as he remembered the incident after he’d snooped in Peter’s office. “I figured it out,” he said.

Derek set the toast on the kitchen table with a butter dish and a cup of tea. “It’s just mint – it’ll help keep your stomach settled,” he explained, taking a seat on the other side.

Stiles sat and sniffed at the tea, finding that it did, indeed, smell very minty. It was too hot to drink, so he set it back down and buttered his toast. “Thanks,” he said.

“Of course.” Derek leaned forward, arms folded on the table. “So what all do you know about the werewolf thing, then?” he asked.

“I know Peter’s an alpha,” Stiles said, keeping his gaze fixed on his toast. “I know your eyes change colors and you can turn into… well, not all the way into a wolf but kind of half-and-half.”

“Peter’s shift is a little more dramatic than is normal for a wolf,” Derek told him.

Stiles looked up at him, surprised.

“A beta – that’s what I am – well, do you get what an alpha is? Compared to a beta?”

“An alpha can turn a human into a werewolf,” Stiles answered. “And they’re more powerful. They can control other wolves.”

Derek pressed his lips into a line and tipped his head from side to side in a deliberating fashion. “Sometimes. To some extent. A beta can defy an alpha, leave them. We’re not total puppets. Otherwise, Peter would be my alpha, and he is _so _not.”

That was news to Stiles. He’d spent ages terrified that Peter would turn him, and he’d be trapped mindlessly by the man’s side forever. “So who is your alpha?” Stiles crunched on his toast slowly.

Lifting a shoulder in a half shrug, Derek answered, “There’s a good alpha in a neighboring territory, Satomi. She gives me a bit more space than is usual for a beta. I’m living on my family’s territory. Peter’s, I guess, but he doesn’t have a pack of his own. There’s a lot of politics and bad history behind all of it. I – I mean, I can tell you if you want, but probably not over breakfast.” Derek got up and filled a glass of water in the sink, then sat back down.

“So anyway, a beta wolf has a much more subtle shift. Our faces change, claws, fangs, things like that. There are some exceptions. My mom could shift so she looked exactly like a wolf, but that’s really rare. It’s a sign of a powerful leader. Other alphas can change into that monster form Peter has, but they have to give something up to do it. Some of their humanity.”

The question popped into Stiles’s mind immediately, but he was terrified to voice it. It took a moment of internal debate and a sip of tea to get it out. “Is that why Peter is…?” He felt like a traitor.

“Peter’s been the way he is my whole life,” Derek said, his tone taking a dark turn. “Becoming an alpha might have made it more intense, but this was always him. I think he probably had that form when he first became an alpha. He was already there.”

Stiles opened his mouth to ask another question, but Derek stood up and took a deep breath. “We should probably get moving. You really do need to see a doctor.”

* * *

  
  


The ride to the hospital was quiet, and the raw, hungover feeling intensified until Stiles’s hands were shaking. But maybe that was nerves. It took a while for Derek to explain the situation to the receptionist, and the more he talked, the worse it sounded. How has this boy been abused? Let me count the ways: physically, sexually, emotionally, medically, psychologically. Stiles wanted to step in and deny some of it, insist that it wasn’t as bad as Derek made it seem, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything but fold his arms around himself and stare at the woman’s pen as it raced across the forms.

They sat in the waiting room, and when a nurse called his name, they both stood up. Derek asked, “Do you want to go in by yourself or have me come with? It’s up to you.” Stiles didn’t think he could handle being alone for this, but he also didn’t know how much more of his fucked up life he could bare to one person before he had to change his name and move to Mexico.

As he was trying to decide, he heard a woman’s voice from the direction of the exam rooms. “I can take this one.” Mrs. McCall. She didn’t look very different from the last time he’d seen her, though Stiles knew he must. She probably hadn’t recognized him until they called his name.

“I can – I’ll go in by myself. I’ll tell them to get you if I need to,” Stiles said.

Closer, he could see that there were new creases at the corners of Mrs. McCall’s eyes. She looked like she was biting the inside of her cheek as she looked at him. She maintained a look of professionalism until they were in the exam room with the door closed. Then she turned toward him and said, “What happened, sweetie?”

He broke down crying in an instant, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I really fucked up this time.” Stiles sucked in a shaking, noisy breath as she pulled him in against her chest. “I let it get really bad. I don’t know, it didn’t – I thought I had it under control, and the next thing I knew...”

She shushed him and hugged him tight, rocking gently on her feet. “It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll get it all straightened out, whatever it is.” Mrs. McCall pulled back and wiped his tears with her thumbs. “Have a seat, and we’ll figure out what’s going on.”

Stiles told her everything. How easy it had been at first. He left out the details when it got to the physical and sexual abuse, just said, “Then it got… violent. But he always made it seem like… like he had to. It was for my own good. I don’t know why I believed it. It was just easy. I thought after… after everything… I thought I’d know better.”

Mrs. McCall didn’t judge, didn’t push or try to tell him he had been in the wrong. She just said, “He’s a psychologist, Stiles. He knew what buttons to push.”

He told her how he’d tried to leave, and Peter just drugged him until he couldn’t tell up from down. She had him describe the shapes and colors of the drugs, taking notes and humming when she recognized something. “How are you feeling? You would have taken the first dose by now, right?”

“I feel weird,” Stiles told her. “And shitty and really, really weird.”

“We’ll probably have to get a prescription to wean you off of them so you don’t get withdrawals. These are some pretty intense drugs. Do you know if you were actually supposed to be on any of them? Have you seen a doctor that wasn’t someone Peter hired?” Mrs. McCall clicked her pen as she thought.

Stiles hunched his shoulders and looked at his knees. “I never even saw the doctor that prescribed them,” he admitted. “Peter just, I dunno, made it happen.” Had he needed them? Stiles had plenty of issues, but he was getting the sense that he only truly _needed_ them because of the conditions Peter had him living in. “I maybe needed something, y’know, but probably not that much. I think he likes when they make me go all limp.” Maybe that was too much information, but whatever.

Mrs. McCall looked over at him, her expression devastated for a brief moment before she schooled it into something less emotional. “None of them were properly prescribed, then. We’ll get you weaned off, and then we can get a real doctor to figure out what you need.”

Then they got into the food control, then the club. Mrs. McCall had been there in the aftermath of Robert’s abuse, fighting tooth and nail to get Stiles into her custody only to be told that she wasn’t home enough to care for a child with his needs. As if the state had done shit to take care of his needs. But that was all to say that this wasn’t the first time he’d had to talk about sex in front of her. Even after running away, he had gone to her a couple of times with STD scares.

Even so, Stiles felt his face burning bright red as he recounted the sexual extremes he’d been through in the last few months. A lot of it was hazy, blocked out or forgotten altogether. A lot of what he couldn’t tell her was damning enough on his own. Did he know how many men? No. Did he know if they used protection? He thought so, but he didn’t know.

By the time he was done, Stiles wanted to crawl into a hole and die, and Mrs. McCall was dutifully trying to pretend that tears weren’t slipping down her cheeks. He could tell she wanted to apologize – for not being able to take him in, to defend him and be there for him. But Stiles had told her years ago that he didn’t blame her, and if she apologized for something that wasn’t her fault one more time, he was going to scream.

“Stiles,” she said, pushing back from the computer. “I know you are going through a hell of a lot right now, and I know you must feel overwhelmed. But have you thought about going after this guy? Pressing charges? You came in here with a cop, right?”

As of last night, Stiles had still been debating whether or not he’d try to go back to Peter, but laying everything out start to finish for Mrs. McCall had pretty well shaken that idea out of him. “I don’t know,” Stiles mumbled. He rubbed at his face. “God, is it stupid if I say I feel… I feel like I’m a traitor for even talking about this. Like, maybe he was using me when he said he loved me, but I said I loved him, too, and now I’m...” Stiles’s emotions caught in his throat, and he grit his teeth against the feeling. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Mrs. McCall said quickly. “I think Peter knew what he was doing. I think it’s normal that you would feel loyal to him. To miss him even.” She sighed. “Do you see how bad it was, though? The medication, the club, the food. I don’t know the details of what he did to you physically, but you said yourself that he was violent.”

For some reason, having her understand made it harder and easier all at the same time. It made his feelings more real, already amped up by the withdrawals. Stiles swallowed and wiped at his eyes. “I know,” he mumbled, watery and miserable at the knowledge. Because it was obvious, Stiles knew, in retrospect. “He’s always nice after. Or just gives me extra meds. Gets me an extra treat after we go to the club.” Stiles huffed and curled forward in his seat, elbows on his knees.

“He was training you,” Mrs. McCall explained. “Giving you just enough good to stick around.”

Stiles looked up at her, and though he hadn’t planned to say it, blurted out, “He used to whip my feet til they bled.” The horror in her expression was what he’d been looking for. Confirmation that it was as bad as it had felt at the time. Not, _‘Just your feet, Stiles, stop being dramatic_.’

“Stiles, that’s torture,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry you went through that, sweetie.”

Stiles looked up at her with shining eyes. “Am I pathetic for putting up with it?” he asked. He felt fucking pathetic.

Mrs. McCall shook her head. “No, sweetie. No. He’s an adult, and he manipulated you. You’re not alone either, Stiles. I’ve seen this sort of manipulation before – probably right here in this room. It’s not your fault. He knew you were vulnerable, and he used that.”

“I should have walked out the first time. I should have realized… who lets a guy do that? Who just… I don’t even remember what he did after the first time. To make me not freak out. He must have done something, right?” He was wracking his brain, trying to piece together the incident.

“He must have,” she agreed. “He would have layered the abuse with rewards and affection.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. I guess he did.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Well, you don’t have to decide now, but if you even think you will want to, you should put in a statement with the police now. What you do with that statement, you can decide later. But it helps to get it in early.” She studied his face for a moment, then pulled her hand back and clicked a few times on the program she had been typing his information into. “What I’m thinking is this: we’re going to get you into a room, because you’ll probably be here most of the day running tests. It’s going to be long and _boring_. We can have your cop friend come back here and take a formal statement while we’re doing that. Keep you from nodding off – how does that sound?”

Stiles nodded, and she leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “Alright. Let’s get you to a room and a _very_ stylish hospital gown, and I’ll go get him.”

‘Him’ turned out to be both Derek and the cop from the night before, Jordan Parrish, though he respectfully hesitated in the doorway and asked if Stiles minded him coming in. Derek explained that he really shouldn’t be the one to take the statement, since he had a personal involvement. Stiles had no idea what to make of that, but he agreed and started going through things all over again with Jordan.

He admitted that he’d been with Peter longer than he’d originally said, since before he turned eighteen, under the age of consent and legally a missing person, a runaway ward of the state, at that time.

All the while, Mrs. McCall was darting in and out of the room, taking blood samples, weighing him, taking his pulse and blood pressure. At one point, she had to shoo the officers out of the room so she could do a rectal exam, during which she and Stiles both got very quiet and awkward until Mrs. McCall finally said, “You know, I think it’s been four whole years since we did this. That’s got to be a record.”

Stiles laughed, which made his muscles clench up, which made Mrs. McCall yelp and laugh, and then the exam was over and they were both laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Thanks, Mrs. McCall,” Stiles told her, ducking his head.

She laughed again. “You know, Stiles, I think we might be on a first name basis at this point.”

When Derek and Jordan came back in, they started asking about the money Peter had supposedly put away for Stiles. “When I met him,” Stiles explained, “I had some money saved up, all cash. He offered to put it in a bank account for me.”

“How much did you have?” Jordan asked. Stiles was starting to get a feel for the officer’s personality, buried under the veneer of professionalism. He had a righteous air of justice about him, like he was out to save every kitten that ever got stuck in a tree, then lock the trees up for their crimes.

“Probably a couple thou,” Stiles figured, though it had been a while ago. “I’d just worked a pretty big job when he picked me up, so...” Beacon Hills wasn’t big enough to have a dedicated department for vice crimes, but it had already come up that BHPD had gone through special training for vice and sex crimes. They could both probably imagine what a ‘big job’ entailed.

“And he said he’d pay me for taking care of the house and shit. I don’t even know what we agreed on,” Stiles continued. “He just said he’d pay me well. I tried to take it with my debit card once. I was gonna leave.”

They both looked surprised by that, but didn’t say anything. Stiles felt a little bit proud of himself for having tried at least once.

“The machine said there was five thousand in the account, but there was a limit on how much I could take out in a day, so that killed that idea. It’s all in his name, and we didn’t sign anything. Fuck, that was stupid. You think I can just, like, shake him down for it? He has a bougie job, shit to lose.” Celebrities did that shit all the time, right? Paid off baby mamas to stop them coming after them. It could work.

Jordan made a choking noise and coughed. Derek laughed. “Maybe let’s avoid blackmail,” Jordan advised. “But you definitely have grounds for a law suit, I’d say.”

“He’s got a video of me somewhere,” Stiles remembered aloud. “From before I was eighteen, if that helps.”

Jordan and Derek exchanged a look. “It helps,” Jordan said firmly.

* * *

  
  


Things wrapped up not too long after that. Jordan left first, but Derek stayed with him in the room until the tests wrapped up. As Mrs. McCall – _Melissa_ – had promised, they had been there most of the day. His blood tests showed much of the same results they’d gotten last time. A whole host of nutritional deficiencies. They gave him shots for some of the vitamins and a dietitian came in to advise him on how to work his way up to a full, healthy diet.

On the way home, Derek waited a few minutes before looking over at Stiles and saying, “You knew Melissa from before today, right?”

“Huh?” Stiles looked up, surprised. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve known her since I was a kid. Why?”

“She smells like someone I know. This guy in Satomi’s pack. Scott.”

Stiles’s brow furrowed. “Scott, like… Scott _McCall_?”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t actually know his last name. I’m shit with names. That was Melissa’s last name, right?”

Stiles sat up in his seat, world feeling like it was tipping on its axis. “Wait, wait, wait. Slow down. Are you telling me that _Scott McCall_ is in a werewolf pack? Scott’s a werewolf?”

Derek nodded, looking increasingly alarmed. “Yeah, he – shit. You know Scott?”

“We were best friends when – well, before I became a homeless delinquent. Melissa’s his mom. What the fuck? How the fuck did Scott become a werewolf?”

“Peter bit him.”

Silence rang out through the car except the rapid thudding of Stiles’s heart, which they could both hear clear as a drumbeat. “What?” The question came out a whisper. “When?”

“It happened this winter. It started a whole shit storm between Peter and Satomi.”

“Why? I thought alphas were supposed to make other werewolves for their packs.”

Derek shook his head. “Not when the person didn’t ask to be bit. Not when the person doesn’t want to be in their pack. He ambushed the poor kid, then tracked him down after he’d been left to freak out on his own for a whole week, telling Scott he was in his pack now.”

Stiles felt sick to his stomach. He’d spent a lot of time during the holidays reminiscing to Peter about the good old days, when he and Scott had been thick as thieves. Peter had to have bit Scott because of him, as some sort of fucked up gift to him. Bringing his old friend into the pack.

“Scott flipped out, nearly got caught in public,” Derek continued. “Our pack caught wind of it, and after Satomi found out what Peter had done, we barely managed to talk her down from ripping Peter to shreds. She took Scott into her pack, and they’ve been working on getting him under control.”

Fuck. Fuck, this was all his fault. If he hadn’t told Peter all of those stories about Scott, if he hadn’t been with Peter in the first place… “What do you mean under control?” he asked, distressed.

Derek looked over at him and sighed, looking like he regretted bringing this up at all. “It’s not that bad, Stiles. I swear. Scott is _fine._ Bitten wolves have a harder time controlling the wolf instincts, especially at first. But Satomi was bitten, too. She’s pretty much the best teacher he could ask for.”

Stiles went quiet, thinking this through. What could Peter possibly have been thinking? After a moment, he asked, “Was it before Christmas?”

“Yeah, I think – oh.” Derek frowned and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You think it was supposed to be a present.”

Stiles nodded his head and shrank back into his seat. That was a level of guilt he was so not equipped to deal with right now. “What the fuck,” he muttered.

After an awkward few minutes of silence, Derek said, “I’m thinking we should get you a change of clothes.” Stiles looked down at the clothes Derek had loaned him for their trip to the hospital – a t-shirt that hung on him like a circus tent and a pair of sweats putting their drawstring to the test.

“I have a ton of clothes at Peter’s. Do you think… I mean, I could at least go get my stuff, right?”

Derek chewed on his lip. “Look, I’m not saying you can’t? But I really don’t want you to. This isn’t going to be easy, and if he tried to lure you back…” He sighed. “You only just left. I think it would be really hard for you to resist right now, and I worry that if you went back...”

He didn’t say it, but Stiles heard it anyway, as clearly as he’d said it the night before. He worried that Stiles would die.

“What if you picked them up for me, so I don’t have to see him?” Stiles suggested. “Or he could even mail them – I dunno.” What would Peter say to it? He found himself desperate to know, to get some clue on where Peter stood on this whole situation. Did he want Stiles to come home?

“No, it’s okay, Stiles. I think it might be better to not ask him for things. Not accept presents. At least, not until we know what’s happening, legally. I can get you a few things.”

So that was really how it had to be: totally cut off. Stiles’s stomach twisted at the thought, and for a minute, he worried he’d be sick again.

No, just nerves this time.

“I don’t need much,” he assured Derek. “As long as I don’t have to go naked on laundry day.” He gave a tired smile. He felt suddenly worn to the bone. As they pulled up to Derek’s building, Stiles said, “You know, I’ll still have to get some of my stuff. He’s got all my papers I got from child services when I turned eighteen.”

“We can look at getting a lawyer involved for that, make sure it goes smoothly,” Derek said.

They got out of the car, and Stiles shuffled up toward the door. “I think I need a nap if that’s okay,” he said. “I kinda feel like shit.”

Derek unlocked the door and held it open for him. “You don’t have to ask,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: aftermath of trauma, trauma recovery, discussion of everything that’s happened in the fic so far, medical procedures
> 
> As much as I teased out Derek forever and ever can I just tell you how HYPED I am to be bringing Melissa and Scott into this story?? I AM.
> 
> Also! I have one and a half chapters left to write at this point, so I should be posting daily from here on out. Last chapter is scheduled for November 29th!


	24. Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek fills Stiles in on some of the vital information he's been missing.

“Is it possible to, like, OD on protein?” Stiles sighed at the ceiling. He lay across the couch, a chocolate protein shake balanced on his chest.

“Sort of,” Derek said. He was sitting on the floor at the coffee table, working on paperwork for a B&E he’d handled that week.

“Wait, really?” Stiles asked, flailing toward him quickly and nearly knocking over his drink before he remembered that it was there.

Derek looked up, resting an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. “It’s processed by the kidneys, so if you eat too much over a long period of time, it can cause kidney stones and other renal issues.”

Stiles opened his mouth, but Derek cut him off before he could ask his next question.

“No, Stiles, you’re not OD’ing on protein. Melissa wouldn’t let you do that. You’re just a little constipated.” He laughed and looked down at his papers.

“_A little constipated_,” Stiles huffed, indignant. He rolled onto his back again. “My entire body is crammed full of demonic protein shit-bricks, and he says I’m ‘a little constipated’.”

Derek’s shoulders were shaking with the quiet laughter as he tried to concentrate on his work. “Thank you so much for that visual. Try drinking more water like Melissa told you to.”

Stiles reached down for his water bottle, which had been sitting on the floor. It was almost empty, barely a swig of water in the bottom, and he shook it in Derek’s direction, making the best helpless, pouting expression he could muster. “It’s empty,” he whined.

“Seriously?” Derek gave him The EyebrowTM.

Stiles rolled toward him again, this time setting his protein drink safely on the floor so he could prop himself up on an elbow. “Derek,” he said with over-the-top faux sincerity. “I don’t know if you know this, but I’ve, like, been through some shit. I got Stockholm’ed.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Derek snorted.

“I was a _prisoner_ of a _psychopath_,” he pressed.

“And now, what, you’re the prisoner of that couch?”

“Yeah! Shackled down by ten thousand pounds of protein shit.”

“You weigh a hundred and ten pounds,” Derek shot back at him. Stiles had proudly announced that milestone from the bathroom scale just that morning.

“Yeah, one hundred and ten pounds of protein shit.” Then his eyes went wide and he flopped down again. “_Oh no_,” he said. “Derek, what if I’m not actually gaining weight and I’m just so full of shit I _think_ I’m gaining weight but all of the weight? Is shit.”

Derek groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face, but he was smiling despite himself and pushed up to his feet. “I can’t believe… just give me the damn bottle.”

“Thank youuuuu,” Stiles sing-songed.

Gaining weight back was going to take a while. The withdrawal killed his appetite for a week or so off the bat, but he was making steady progress now that they were a few weeks out. Stiles worked on his protein shake, lying on his stomach and looking down at his phone. A text from Scott popped up.

_Satomi: peace comes from within. Let go of your anger and be one with the universe_

_Also Satomi: who the fuck tracked mud in my kitchen you know Japanese people ate dogs back in my day istg_

Stiles snorted and texted back, _Gonna assume it was you that tracked the mud in_

_I plead the fifth_

“Scott?” Derek presumed as he came back in. He passed Stiles his water bottle.

“Yup. I think he’s bored,” Stiles told him, then added with a hopeful expression, “You know, I, too, am bored. You know, we could both be less bored if we were being bored together.”

Derek stretched before settling back down on the floor. “I know, I know. Don’t make that face at me. It’s Satomi that gets to say when he’s ready to be around humans.”

“But Satomi would listen to you! Scott’s always saying she likes you more than anyone else.”

“That’s not true,” Derek said, shaking his head. He picked up his pen, like he was going to start working, then set it down again and looked up. “Satomi was really good friends with my mom. Our packs were close allies. It’s half the reason she’s let Peter carry on in our old territory as long as she did.”

Stiles sat up against the arm of the couch, finished off his shake, then started on his water. “You never did tell me all of the political shit that went down between them.”

Derek pushed his papers into a pile, obviously ready to start a larger conversation. “Did Peter tell you about the fire?”

“He took me to the house once. He told me your mom died in it, and a bunch of other people in the pack,” Stiles agreed softly. He didn’t actually know how long ago it happened, but he didn’t think there was any amount of time that could make an event like that easy to talk about.

“The family. Our pack was all family members. My parents, my aunt and uncle, my little sister and little brother, and two cousins.”

Jesus. Stiles had lost a lot in his life, but he couldn’t imagine dealing with something at that scale. “He said...” Now that it came to relaying it to Derek, Peter’s words sounded so harsh. But Derek knew what sort of man his uncle was. “He said it happened because your mom left the pack to their own devices, and one of them lead the enemy to you.”

Derek flinched, but schooled his expression fairly quickly. “Hunters. It was a group of hunters. Anyway, after my mom died, my older sister, Laura, became the alpha.”

It was the first that Stiles had heard of an older sister. “Not Peter?”

“No, Peter was so badly burned -”

“Wait, Peter was in the fire?” Stiles interrupted, incredulous, because that seemed like a huge thing to leave out of the story.

Derek blew out a breath, apparently reassessing how much he needed to explain. “Yeah. The hunters used wolfsbane – a poison that works on wolves – when they set the fire. So even though Peter survived, he couldn’t heal. There were burns on forty percent of his body, and he was comatose.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Stile understood now why Peter would leave that out. The image of Peter so damaged and helpless was completely contradictory to his image of the man.

“We set him up in a care facility, but once I finished high school, Laura and I decided to get away from the memories. We moved to New York to stay with another friendly pack. I went to college, became an EMT. She taught high school science. And then one summer, about four years ago, some strange events started cropping up in Beacon Hills.”

Derek leaned back on his hands, frowning as he tried to get the story into a sensible order. “So, normally, a territory can only be held if there’s a pack in it, with an alpha. Normally, the second Laura and I abandoned Beacon Hills, another pack would start hedging in to claim the territory. Especially a territory like ours. It’s huge, lots of open space, and there’s a sort of mystical energy to the place that’s really unusual.”

Stiles thought, for the first time in a really long time, about those strange dreams he’d had while he was out of his mind at Peter’s. About the clearing and the tree. He hadn’t told anyone about that, not even Derek. It all felt so surreal, he was mostly sure he’d made it up in a fog of bad medication.

“But our neighboring pack is Satomi’s, and, like I said, she was really good friends with my mom. She knew that Laura was young and that we’d both been through a lot, so she sort of… held the space for us. She protected Beacon Hills, but she didn’t claim it for herself. Plus, my mom was really well-respected in the community, and what happened to our family… it really shook a lot of people. No one wanted to be the asshole that took advantage of our tragedy.”

“But when strange things started to happen, it was still Laura’s territory to worry about,” Stiles supposed, imagining what that must have been like for her, barely an adult and supposed to take up such a huge mantle of responsibility.

Derek nodded and looked down, pain crossing his features unguarded. “It was a trap. The hunters...” His voice caught, and Stiles wanted to get up and go hug him. Instead, he just hugged his own knees and waited. “They cut her in half.” Derek’s voice cracked on the last word.

After all of that loss, after losing every single person in his family but one, Derek had lost the last. And lost her in such a horrible way. Stiles couldn’t hold off any more. He set his water bottle down and went over to sit on the floor next to Derek, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a sideways hug. Though their heights made it a little awkward, Derek tipped his head to the side to rest it on Stiles’s bony shoulder.

After taking a deep breath to steady himself, Derek continued. “Maybe it was because I was on the other side of the country, but the alpha spark went to Peter instead of me, and it was enough to heal him. And then he was the alpha of the territory. By the time I came back, Peter had already tracked down the hunters and killed them. I tried to be in his pack, but… well, the guy’s a fucking psycho. You know. I couldn’t do it.”

“So then you went to Satomi’s pack,” Stiles offered.

“Yeah. And that’s when the Hale territory got a whole lot more complicated. Satomi doesn’t like Peter, but she still wanted to respect the family’s name and claims to the land. But me rejecting Peter as an alpha was a big deal in the community. Peter didn’t have any other betas, and an alpha without betas is weak. Hardly stronger than a beta themselves.”

“Wait, what?” Stiles pulled away a little so he could look at Derek. Because that was definitely not what Peter had told him. It really should stop surprising him, learning that Peter had lied or left things out. “Peter said an alpha doesn’t need a pack.”

Derek snorted. “Peter wishes that was true because he can’t keep a pack to save his life.”

“He told me that a pack you can’t control is worse than no pack at all,” Stiles added.

“Yeah, that sounds like him. It’s part of why he could never get anyone to stay. There were a few wolves that passed through here and there, but no one stuck around him for long. Between being rejected by his own family, his _only _remaining family, and everyone else that left him, he got marked as unworthy of his title. Satomi calls him ‘an alpha in eyes only.’ She’s said it to his face, and let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty.”

Stiles couldn’t imagine Peter putting up with that sort of disrespect and letting the other person live to tell about it. Satomi must be incredibly powerful. But, he realized, of course she was. She had a huge pack, and he had none.

Derek shook his head, looking irritated about the whole situation. “Anyway, it’s been an ugly back-and-forth for years now, Peter insisting that the whole territory is still his and packs in bordering territories hedging in and saying he doesn’t have the power to keep it. He’s resorted to all sorts of dirty fighting to keep ahead of them, too.”

Stiles shook his head. “He never said anything about it. I heard him arguing with people sometimes, and he mentioned a few emergencies, but he never told me.”

It turned his whole view of things on end. Not Peter, the all-powerful, brutal alpha. But Peter, a fucking joke in the werewolf community. Impotent. A social pariah.

“It really ramped up this past year, after I saw you in his house. I couldn’t get anywhere near him. You can’t exactly run surveillance on a werewolf – they sniff you out every time. Then the Scott thing had us distracted for a while. It wasn’t until I found out he was going to that club that I had any legal way to look into him more, and the raid took forever to get moving.”

Stiles stared at Derek, brain stalling out a little as he put together what he was saying. Derek had been working on getting him away that whole time? But, no, that didn’t make sense when he thought about it. “Sorry, _what_? You didn’t even recognize me at the club. I thought…” Stiles chewed on his lip. “I thought you forgot about me.”

Derek frowned, shoulders sagging a bit. “When I saw you at his house and you lied about being okay, I thought he had you there to turn you. So we were on the lookout for new wolves. It’s how we found Scott so quickly. I figured you hadn’t worked out, figured you left like the others or the bite didn’t take.” He looked away, jaw clenched. “I had no idea you were there the whole time, Stiles. If I had known...”

There had been way too much guilt going around among people just trying to do the right thing. Melissa, Stiles, Scott, and now Derek. It was never the people that deserved to feel guilty that did.

“You weren’t at the grocery store on accident, were you?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head. “I was following you, after the club raid. Peter knew it, too.”

“What’s going to happen to him now?” Stiles asked. As much as Melissa and Officer Parrish had pushed for him to press criminal charges against Peter, Stiles knew he couldn’t. He’d sat down with Satomi and Derek about a week after he filed his report, and they explained to him the dangers of trying to put a werewolf in a human prison. There were other ways to get justice from him, they had assured him. And that would have to be good enough.

“Once we’re done suing the life out of him?” Derek said brightly, attempting to lighten the mood.

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, after that.” That had been one of their avenues for justice. A law suit for all of the damage Peter had done to him over the course of a year. Peter was loaded, Derek had explained, and Stiles could be set up nicely for quite some time, or at least pay his medical bills.

Derek pressed his lips together thoughtfully, obviously weighing his words. “He won’t be the alpha of this territory for much longer,” he settled on.

The hedging made Stiles uneasy, especially in the wake of finding out Derek had been following him without his knowledge, even if it had been with good intentions. Giving him half-truths, just enough to keep him settled – that was a Peter move. And while Stiles had come to trust Derek and loathed to compare them, he had also trusted Peter, once upon a time.

At his first session with his new therapist, Anna, he’d told her that he had bad instincts for people. Anna had tipped her head to the side, watching him with a soft expression before saying, _“You know, I bet you actually have very good instincts, after everything you’ve been through. That’s how the brain works, generally: the more dangers we’re exposed to, the more alert we become to danger. If I had to venture a guess this early on, I’d say your problem is not giving yourself enough credit – not trusting yourself enough – to listen to those instincts._”

Stiles was probably through a percentage of a percentage of the amount of therapy he’d end up having to go through, but he was making an effort to listen, to work on things. Derek was keeping something from him, and Stiles didn’t like it.

“_Let’s be clear_,” Anna had continued. “_You’re not crazy. You’re not hysterical or dramatic or attention-seeking. The things you feel, you feel them for a reason. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise._”

He had been to afraid to press Peter for more information. Stiles scooted away from Derek a little, facing him more. “Derek…” Stiles’s jaw worked for a moment as he tried to find the words until he finally bit his lip. Derek was looking at him intently, really listening. “I want you to tell me things,” he settled on. “Plans that are going on. I’m really sick of people keeping things from me.”

Derek’s expression was wounded for a moment, then fell into something more along the lines of guilt. He sighed. “I promise, I’m not keeping things back to try to control you or -” Derek’s teeth clicked as he snapped his mouth shut. He grimaced and rubbed a hand over his face. “Fuck, maybe that’s not totally true.”

Stiles’s heart thudded a little faster at that. Derek was so careful to not control him. What could he possibly be talking about?

“I’m afraid you’ll go back to him,” he said after a moment. “I know you said you won’t, but it still scares me. I keep thinking about how you looked when you came here that first night, how you were tiny and shaking and covered in blood, and you were already talking about going back to him. Jesus, he was brainwashing you for a year.” Derek ran a hand through his hair, shifted uneasily, then pushed himself up to his feet. He walked down the hall.

If he was being completely honest, Stiles had been a little worried about that, too. He got up and went back to the couch, sitting on the edge of the cushion, picking at the lint on his sweatpants.

Derek returned with a small stack of envelopes in his hand. He looked a bit like a dog that had just pissed on the carpet as he set them down on the coffee table in front of Stiles. “He’s been leaving these in the mailbox,” he confessed.

Stiles looked down at the envelopes. There were eleven. No stamps, just Peter’s handwriting on the back of each: _Stiles_ in looping handwriting. As he sifted through them, Stiles saw that they were all sealed.

“I thought… if you knew he was trying to get you back, you’d go,” Derek said. He had his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched, head hanging low.

_Peter wants me back_. Part of him felt unbridled delight at the thought. Felt important and wanted and safe. There was somewhere he could go, right now, and not have to worry about a single thing ever again.

_For the rest of my life, most likely_, added a more practical side of his brain. Because there were two ways it could go. Either Peter would immediately punish Stiles for his abandonment and he’d spend weeks or months groveling and letting himself be stepped on until he’d atoned, or Peter would be the one trying to make up for letting Stiles go, leaving him in that club. But Peter’s apologies never lasted long. There would be a week or so of Peter treating Stiles like royalty, and then Stiles would fuck something up, and they’d be right back where they were.

“If Peter wanted me back, he’d just come take me,” Stiles said, frowning. The Peter he knew wouldn’t stop at writing letters.

Derek cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot. “He’s been… around,” Derek admitted to the rug. “Satomi and the rest of the pack have been watching out for us, and it looks like he’s backed off for now. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and I’m sorry about the letters. I know I shouldn’t have taken them. It wasn’t right for me to take the choice away from you.”

“You didn’t open them?” Stiles said, though he could see that. Derek shook his head, and Stiles looked at the envelope in his hands. They weren’t dated, so there was no telling which had come first, but this one had a slightly less flourished handwriting than some of the others. His hands were shaking as he lifted a finger to the flap. His chest felt tight. Stiles shook his head. “I can’t.” He held it out to Derek. “Can you open it? Tell me what it says?”

Derek looked hesitant, but he took the envelope and opened it, unfolding the letter. It was plain, lined paper from a legal pad, the kind Peter kept notes on. Derek’s eyes scanned over it slowly, his brow pinching in further with each moment, jaw clenching tighter. Stiles saw his claws start to slide out, but Derek reined himself back in. He looked up.

“Please don’t make me read this to you,” he said through clenched teeth. “This is horrible.”

Stiles licked his lips. “That was one of the more recent ones, wasn’t it?” he said, not waiting for Derek to respond, not knowing if he could tell from the smell or not. “That’s where he started to get mad I wasn’t listening to him.”

Derek nodded.

“And he started to insult me, right? Call me ungrateful?”

A nod.

“And list out all the shit he’s done for me?”

Another nod and the claws made another brief appearance.

Stiles felt like he was reciting the script to a play he’d acted out too many times. He didn’t need to know what the letter said. He already knew the scene. Stiles shoved the rest of the pile toward Derek. “Get rid of them. I don’t need to know what that fucker has to say.”

Derek’s shoulders sagged in relief, though his apologetic expression stayed. He gathered up the letters, then hesitated. “I think we should keep them for the law suit, but I’ll get rid of them if you want.”

Now it was Stiles’s turn to sigh. Derek was walking on eggshells, about ready to go flog himself over this. No, he didn’t like that Derek had kept this from him, but Stiles _got it_. Hell, if he’d seen these a few days after leaving, maybe he would have gone back. And if he knew Peter was lurking around outside? He’d probably be too freaked out to sleep.

“Derek, I’m not mad at you,” Stiles said. “I’m… glad you told me now. We’re cool, okay? And, yeah, you’re right. We should probably keep them as, like, evidence and stuff.”

“No more secrets,” Derek said firmly. “I promise. I’m going to put these in with the rest of your papers, so if you decide to read them, you can.” He turned to do just that, heading for the box of papers next to the bookshelf where they’d been gathering medical documents and other paperwork.

“And Derek?” he added, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. Derek paused and glanced back at him. “I’m glad you care so much about keeping me safe from him. But I like that you care about letting me make my own decisions more.”

Derek frowned. “But I-”

“You could have just not told me,” Stiles insisted, cutting him off. “I never would have known.”

Derek nodded and put the envelopes away. When he straightened back up, he said, “Satomi hasn’t decided our next move yet. She’s still talking to other packs in the area to see who our allies are.”

“But you’ll tell me once it’s decided?”

“Even if I can’t tell you the tactical details, I’ll tell you the general idea.”

“Okay.” Stiles nodded. His gaze dropped down to Derek’s hands, which were fidgeting uneasily. “Do you always pop your claws out when you get angry?”

“It’s more to do with heart rate, but I can control it if I’m focusing. Anger, fear, arousal -”

“Arousal?”

Derek rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips quirked up, and Stiles felt like the mood shifted in a second, becoming lighter. “Of course you’d latch onto that. But, yeah, puberty as a werewolf is a hell of a thing.”

“So you’re telling me they’re like little finger boners?”

“Please don’t call them that.”

Stiles grinned. “Too late. They are officially _finger boners_.”

Snorting, Derek shook his head and went back to his side of the coffee table, easing himself down. “Remind me why I like you so much?”

Stiles’s heart thudded a little faster in his chest, which he knew Derek could hear. “No idea, bro!” he said, awkward and maybe a little too loudly. “Don’t you have work to do or something?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: discussion of canonical character death, stalking
> 
> Alt title: Exposition. Alt-alt title: EGADS this is a big ol' dump of background info Stiles has been missing out on.
> 
> Also, this chapter used to be about half the length it is now, but you folks as GREAT questions and I kept being like "fuck gotta add that to the info dump chapter" "FUCK gotta add that too" and here we are.


	25. Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek go for a run.

The past two months had been fucking excruciating. Good, better, freeing, but so damn hard that most days Stiles just wanted to curl up in his bed and hide.

There were doctor appointments, diet planning, medication withdrawals. Those he got the hang of fairly quickly. The stomach issues he’d struggled with at first had settled down as his body adjusted to getting enough food again.

Therapy was hard, but they started small, managing his immediate challenges, then building trust to work on the deeper issues. His therapist, Anna, had a kind but practical nature about her, quick to call Stiles out when he was avoiding an issue or deflecting with humor. They settled into a sort of rhythm where she could just look at him a certain way, and Stiles would catch himself, backtrack, add something like, _“...which of course wasn’t my fault because I was being coerced?”_ And Anna would nod her head approvingly for him to move on.

What had been harder to stomach were meetings with the lawyer, recounting and reliving all of his and Peter's worst moments, putting them on paper, and labeling each with a criminal offense. Realizing over and over that things he'd thought were okay were really abuse. Somewhere in the horrific extremes of violence, things like a slap across the face or fucking him while he was passed out had started to seem normal, mild.

The lawyer had warned him up front that Peter might challenge them, insist on a trial and drag things out for months, maybe years depending on his resources. He would have to relate these things in court, sit in a witness box and relive the worst highlights of the past year. Stiles honestly wasn’t sure if he could have handled it. Thankfully, Peter had wanted to keep things quiet so he wouldn’t lose his job at the university. They settled out of court, and he never had to see Peter once.

Derek had been there through all of it. Even after Stiles got his first chunk of hush money, he insisted Stiles stay with him while he healed. He was paying rent and chipping in for groceries now, though.

Stiles got twenty thousand dollars every three months for the next five years. It paid his medical deductible easily, which was good because he'd had weekly appointments. A portion went to rent and other expenses, but the majority went into savings.

* * *

Two months and six days after biting Roy’s dick off, Stiles had finally been cleared for more strenuous exercise. Namely, running. The weight was coming back, sure, but Stiles still felt small and weak without the muscle he'd built up before. Plus, he’d really started to like running while he was living with Peter. Even if it was a forced activity, motivated by Peter’s obsession with keeping him small, it had often been the only time he felt free, allowing his mind to empty and relax without the deadening effect of drugs.

Lacing his shoes, he glanced up at Derek. “No judging me if I crap out a block in. I haven't been for a run in, like, half a year.”

Derek rocked on the balls of his feet. “What? And here I thought we were gonna race.” He grinned. That grin wasn’t fair – too open and honest and fucking charming with those dorky little bunny teeth and the way his cheeks dimpled under his stubble. He had on a pair of loose running shorts and a white tank top that showed off miles of stupidly perfect werewolf muscles.

Stiles, on the other hand, looked like a piece of wet spaghetti that managed to wriggle into human clothing. The payoff from Peter meant he could afford decent running shoes, at least. He never had gotten his stuff back from Peter. It had probably been donated, or even saved for Peter’s next pet.

He hated that thought, but not for the same reason he’d hated it at first. Derek and Satomi both assured him that Peter was going to get what was coming to him, but Stiles wasn’t so sure.

In any case, now he had clothes that _he_ had picked out, not things Peter had chosen for him.

Once they were out on the sidewalk, Stiles gave his calves one last stretch, then started off at a jog, warming up. He’d always been a pretty good runner – it was his main method of self-defense, after all – but he could tell almost immediately how much his body had let go over the past months. Derek kept pace beside him, looking like the speed was awkwardly slow for him.

Two blocks in, Stiles started to lag, wheezing for breath. Finally, he stumbled and stopped, curling forward with his hands on his knees, panting desperately. “Oh… my god… I’m… dying...” he gasped.

Derek stopped, not even winded, the bastard. “You made it two blocks!” he congratulated. And, oh, Stiles hated him in that moment. Derek clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Better than you thought.”

“I promise I used to be good at this,” Stiles wheezed. He straightened up and dragged his shirt up to wipe at the sweat on his neck. His face was flushed red right to the tips of his ears.

“Your body probably ate most of your muscle,” Derek reminded him.

Stiles nodded. “Alright, maybe walk a block,” he decided. Then he could try running again. He started off again, a hand on his side where a cramp had started. “Jesus, I can’t even keep up with an old dude.”

Derek gawked at him. “Old?” he demanded. “What do you mean old? I’m not old.” He huffed, affronted and crossing his arms over his chest. “How old do you think I am?”

It hadn’t actually come up before. Stiles didn’t really know how long it took to become a police officer, but he’d also been an EMT, if briefly, in New York. Plus, Derek seemed so mature and put together. He’d learned since moving in that Derek actually owned the whole building and rented out the other units as supplemental income. He’d bought it with insurance money from the fire. He didn’t like to talk about that. There was other family money, inherited and passed down in a trust. That was where a lot of Peter’s money came from, a chunk of which was going to Stiles now. Derek had explained all of that in an attempt to get Stiles to not pay rent, but Stiles wanted to pay his own way.

“You’re kinda old,” Stiles insisted. “You’ve got a real job and an apartment and shit. You’re, like, thirty-something, right?”

Derek stared at him, eyebrows high, then laughed and shook his head. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He ran a hand over the back of his head. “Thirty something!?” He huffed and shoved at Stiles’s shoulder lightly.

Stiles stumbled to the side, smirking as Derek fell into the closest thing he’d seen to a tantrum since they’d met.

“I’m not thirty,” he continued to gripe. “I’m twenty-five. Thanks for, you know, making me feel old as fuck, though.” Derek fucking _pouted._ “I’m only, like, seven years older than you.” Then Derek frowned and looked over at Stiles. “Do I look old?” he asked, sounding concerned.

What really did Stiles in was the desperate look on his face at that question. Stiles barked a laugh, and the noise caught him by surprise. It had been ages since he had really laughed loudly like that, anything more than a subdued huff. The sound of it seemed to pull a string inside of him.

Suddenly, his shoulders were shaking, and he was stopping to cover his face as he was overtaken by giggles. He looked up, and the new, confused and concerned look on Derek’s face set him off all over again. Stiles doubled over in laughter. “God, sorry, you just… you looked so worried...” he explained through bouts of wheezing giggles.

Derek’s concern melted into something affectionate, and Stiles saw him bite the inside of his cheek to quell a grin. “Well, I mean. Fucking thirty? Come on.” He put his hands on his hips.

Stiles’s laughter subsided slowly, and he was left just grinning up at Derek, a giddy sort of feeling settling into his chest.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh like that before,” Derek said.

“It’s been a while,” Stiles agreed. Since the exam room with Melissa, that first day after. Before that? He couldn’t remember.

“I bet my old ass could still outrun you,” Derek teased, bouncing from one foot to the other.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles shifted from side to side, getting ready to run again, a playful competition on his face. Between the werewolf speed and his own lack of fitness, he’d have to do something to throw Derek off his game if he wanted any sort of chance. He thought a moment, then looked up at Derek and said, “Hey, I always thought older guys were pretty hot. Maybe that’s why I thought you were old.”

Stiles winked at Derek, then took off down the block as fast as he could, leaving Derek standing there, blushing to the tips of his ears. Delayed, he called out, “Hey!” and took off after him.

Derek caught up quickly and overtook Stiles. “Noooo,” Stiles panted. He tried to push, but he was no match. “Not fair, you’re using werewolfy stuff.”

Turning toward Stiles and jogging backward just ahead of him – probably just to show off, the asshole – Derek said, “You know, you could just call me hot without calling me old.” Except the moment the words were out of his mouth, his foot hit an uneven bit of sidewalk, and he stumbled backward, landing on his ass.

It took Stiles a second too long to react, and he found himself struggling to stop in time, almost tripping on Derek. He yelped and caught himself on the man’s shoulder, just shy of falling on top of him. His chest was heaving as he started laughing again, breathless. “Smooth, dude.”

Derek was blushing, and as Stiles stared down at him, he was suddenly sure that he’d been drugged out of his mind when he first met Derek. There was no other explanation for not noticing how fucking gorgeous he was. He licked his lips before stepping back and offering Derek a hand up. “Come on, let’s head back. Are you alright? Twist an ankle or something?”

With minimal assistance from Stiles’s proffered hand, Derek hauled himself up and wiped the back of his shorts. “I’m a little more durable than that,” he assured him drolly. “You want to walk back?”

“Maybe run the last block,” Stiles suggested, since he knew this had been a pretty weak workout for someone that wasn’t recovering from starvation.

Derek nodded in agreement. “Do you want to join me on runs in the mornings?” he offered. “I know it’s pretty early. Six usually, but I only go for half an hour.”

Stiles shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I don’t mind,” he agreed. “I used to – um, I’d get up for when Peter left for work. So I don’t mind.” It was still awkward whenever he had to bring Peter up, but it was hard not to. He’d been Stiles’s whole world for a year.

“Well, it’s optional, okay? You don’t have to,” Derek insisted. He was always doing that, always careful to make sure Stiles got a choice in things, that he didn’t ever feel like Derek was bossing him around or deciding for him. Stiles figured Derek was afraid he would think their situation was similar to his and Peter’s, though he had no idea how he could possibly think that. He appreciated it anyway.

Stiles decided to change the subject. “Hopefully I’ll get back in shape pretty quickly, actually be able to keep up with you.”

“I don’t think it’ll take long,” Derek assured him. “You’re already gaining weight back, looking healthier. Starting to look your age, actually.” They had talked about that aspect of the situation with Peter, how he’d intentionally regressed Stiles in so many ways. Stiles had never even told him about the bed-wetting incident. That humiliation could stay squarely between Stiles and his therapist.

They were approaching the last block, the one Stiles wanted to run. Waiting for the road to clear in front of them, Stiles smirked over at Derek and quipped, “Hey, you can just say I look hot without calling me old.” The cars cleared, and he took off at a jog down the street.

Again, Derek was left flustered behind him, then chased after.

As they came up to the steps of the apartment building, Derek said, “I was definitely not calling you old. You barely qualify as an adult. You’ve got a while before teenagers start thinking you’re _thirty something.”_

“I totally qualify as an adult,” Stiles argued through labored breaths. He stayed at the bottom of the steps, catching his breath as Derek went up to unlock the door. “I’ve got a mountain of health problems and a bank account full of hush money. That’s as grown-up as it gets.” He leaned forward on the steps to stretch out his calves, which were already starting to cramp.

“Okay, well...” Derek pointed a finger at him, then laughed. “Yeah, alright, that’s pretty adult.” Derek left the door ajar and started to stretch idly at the top of the stairs, clearly just waiting for Stiles.

“God, at least I stayed flexible,” Stiles muttered, leaning into his stretch. “I get, like, all the breakfast now, right? Gotta eat twice as much if I want to run and gain weight. I think that’s how it works.” It was wishful thinking, but he doubted Derek would turn him down. He came out of the stretch and looked up at Derek, who was staring at him.

“Huh?” Derek said quickly. “Um, yeah. You can have anything you want. What do you feel like?”

Stiles started up the stairs and went past Derek into the apartment. He kicked his shoes off, then wrinkled his nose and lifted the front of his t-shirt to sniff it. “I _feel like_ I shouldn’t have broken this rank a sweat over five blocks,” he muttered.

Derek followed after him. “It’s your first time, Stiles. Don’t beat yourself up over it. We’ll get you running marathons in no time.”

Stiles headed for the hallway, turning to face Derek while he walked backward. “If you let me shower first, I’ll make pancakes while you shower,” he bargained, pulling his shirt over his head. He was already stripping on his way to the bathroom, so clearly, he’d decided that the arrangement was agreed upon.

“That sounds -”

“Awesome, I’ll be out in a minute!” Stiles called, and he heard Derek laugh.

After rinsing off, Stiles fetched himself a pair of clean sweats and returned to the living area shirtless. The heat had let up a bit lately, so the air was off, windows open.

Derek had parked himself on the couch with a glass of water. “Alright, chocolate chip?” Stiles proposed, then glanced at the TV. “Ooh, Top Gear! Can you turn it up so I can hear from the kitchen?” He stopped over by the couch and leaned across the arm of it next to Derek, grabbing a sip of his water.

Derek raised an eyebrow at him, but smiled. “Chocolate chip,” he agreed, turning the volume up. “I’ll go shower.”

Stiles got to work on the pancakes, and he had a decent stack made, despite the fact that he was munching as he went, by the time he heard footsteps behind him. Derek leaned in to poke his head over Stiles’s shoulder. “That smells good.”

Stabbing a piece of the pancake with a fork, he turned, holding it up for Derek to take a bite. “Tastes better,” he insisted.

The second he turned, he was acutely aware of how close they were standing. He could smell the soap on Derek’s skin, see where it was still a bit wet. Derek leaned forward and ate the piece of pancake off the fork, wiping a bit of chocolate off his lip with his thumb. Stiles’s heart jumped in his chest, and he knew Derek could hear it.

“You’re right,” Derek said. “Tastes better.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Uh, grab the syrup,” Stiles squeaked. “It’ll be done in a sex – sec. It’ll be done in a sec.”

What the fuck was the matter with him? Derek, as far as he knew, was as straight as they came, and Stiles was two months out of the world’s most toxic relationship. He turned back to the stove.

Derek, for his part, got the syrup, turned off the TV, and sat down at the kitchen table. “You have any other secret talents besides making tasty pancakes?” he asked.

There were so many ways he could answer that question and retaliation to be had over Derek getting him flustered, intentional or not. Stiles paused with the spatula poised over the last pancake, trying to decide how best to make Derek turn bright red. He set the last pancake on the stack and turned around with the plate in hand. “You mean besides taking three dicks at once?” he asked brightly.

Derek inhaled the water he’d been sipping and coughed. “Uh, um, not -” Bright, bright red.

Stiles set the plate of pancakes on the table and grinned. “You kinda set yourself up for that one.”

“Okay, but I – Jesus, Stiles, I meant...” Derek fumbled over his words.

It was everything Stiles had been hoping for. He cackled to himself, feeling freer with his laughter since his crack up during their run, and pulled a few pancakes onto his plate. “God, your face. You shouldn’t make it so easy, you know.”

“I meant, like, fucking drawing or something. Not…” Derek started to take his own pancakes, then paused and looked up at Stiles. “Three? Really?” he asked, voice squeakier than Stiles had ever heard it, then he held up a hand and shook his head.

Stiles dumped syrup on his pancakes, then took a huge bite. With his mouth full, he pointed at Derek with his fork. “That’s including oral.”

Derek had finally managed to get pancakes onto his plate, but he turned yet another shade of blush darker. “Jesus, I would fucking hope so.” He laughed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then went about dressing his pancakes. Once he’d finally taken a bite, he asked, “What do you enjoy doing? Do you have any hobbies? Anything you do for fun?”

Stiles had to think about that question, mulling it over with a mouthful of food. “I mean, before I got too sick at Peter’s, I went for runs and watched TV and… I guess mostly just waited around for Peter to tell me what to do.” He’d mostly gotten over how pathetic things like that sounded. Derek got the picture anyway. “Before that, I was pretty much homeless. When I wasn’t working, I was trying to figure out how to rip people off for cash.” He rested his chin on his hand, looking thoughtful. It sounded pretty lame now that he thought about it. What kind of life was that?

“Ever... dream?” Derek ventured.

“What, like Chris Evans in a hot tub? Because I’ve totally had that dream.”

Derek snorted and tossed a bit of pancake at him. Stiles caught it in his mouth. “Not literal dreams. I mean, what sort of things are you interested in? Music? Science? Art? Do you like animals?”

Stiles thought for a moment, frowning. He tried to think of a time when he’d felt good at something, when he’d felt capable and talented. There weren’t a whole lot of scenarios that didn’t include sex, but the mention of dreams had caught on something in his head.

“Okay, I know you said not literal dreams,” he said. “But… okay, so this weird thing happened when I was with Peter.” Something about his tone must have caught Derek’s attention, because he sat up straighter in his chair, a bit more attentive. “Right, so, you know how he lied and told me how, if he turned me, I’d pretty much be tied to him forever and would have to listen to him no matter what?” Derek nodded, taking a bite of his pancake. They’d discussed that particular bit of fucked up.

“So that one time, when I tried to get my money so I could leave him, he flipped out. He said he’d turn me before he let me go, and he actually tried to bite me.” He looked down, the look of barely subdued horror on Derek’s face as hard to look at now as it had been every other time he saw it. “But as soon as his fangs touched me, he yelled and jumped off me, and he started screaming at me about shit I didn’t understand, asking why I didn’t tell him.”

“Didn’t tell him what?” Derek asked, voice carefully level. He had lowered his fork.

“Well, I didn’t know at first. He was acting fucking crazy. And then he said, ‘You’re a fucking spark.’”

Derek’s fork dropped noisily onto the plate. A silence fell over the table, and Stiles was afraid to look up, afraid that Derek would be angry at him like Peter had been or, worse, would have no fucking clue what he was talking about. He looked up anyway, but the expression he found was shock and wonderment.

“I didn’t know,” Stiles told him. “And Peter didn’t really explain much except that it meant I couldn’t be turned. And he started upping the drugs a lot after that, so maybe that had something to do with the dreams, but -”

“Dreams?” Derek blurted, then looked apologetic and waved for Stiles to continue.

Stiles hesitated, then went on. “Right, so I started having these weird fucked up dreams about, like, trees and lights and magic, and I could do things in the dreams, like...” He stopped. “Do I sound totally crazy right now?”

Derek shook his head quickly. “No, Stiles. That’s… If Peter was right – and he would know about that – then having dreams would be normal. If you were a spark.”

“What is it?” Stiles asked.

“It’s...” Derek hummed, tipping his head as he deliberated on how to explain. “So, certain humans have an innate gift for magic. It runs in families, but I guess – I mean, you probably never got a chance to learn from yours.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, then picked up his fork and waved it at Derek. “Wingardium Leviosa,” he said with as much seriousness as he could muster.

Derek snorted and smirked and looked away from him. “I’m serious, Stiles. It’s a big deal. You could make a career out of it if you wanted. Wolf packs have people called emissaries – humans that help with magical things wolves can’t do. And sparks are natural emissaries. You’d have to study, learn about magic practices and shit, but you’d be good at it.”

Stabbing at his pancakes, Stiles went back to eating. “Good at studying? I don’t think so. Peter tried to tutor me a little. He said I have ADHD and I’m at, like, a ninth grade level in math or something shitty like that. He had me on something to help me focus, but he gave up once I was spaced out on everything else.” He lifted a shoulder. “Maybe I could try something with it, though. Or maybe I just do what I planned before and get into porn. I’d be good at it.”

Derek frowned. “I dunno if porn is really the best place for… well, for anybody, but with your history? I dunno.” He pushed his plate away. “A lot of shady shit goes on behind the scenes in porn.”

“Yeah, I dunno, man. I’ll figure something out, though. I always do.” But Stiles was talking about survival again. Things might get bad, but he always knew how to survive.

Reaching across the table, Derek set a hand on his forearm. “Hey, you know you don’t have to figure everything out on your own, right?” He pulled his hand back and leaned an elbow on the table. “You’re eighteen. Take some time to live the life you never got. Take classes. Make some friends. Go on dates with guys your own age.”

Stiles stirred a piece of pancake in a soupy pool of syrup. “I dunno when I’ll be ready for that,” he admitted.

“That’s fair,” Derek agreed.

“Plus...” Stiles chewed on his lip. “I mean, I don’t think anyone my age is gonna...” He wasn’t sure how to put it. “I dunno. I just feel like the baggage I’ve got, it’s the kind most guys my age wouldn’t get.” Stiles set his fork down, the bite uneaten. How could he ever relate to another eighteen-year-old? Other than Scott, of course.

“It’s not baggage, Stiles,” Derek said softly. “It’s history. Everybody has it.” He got up and brought his plate over to the sink. “But you’re right. It’s too early to be thinking about it. Right now, all you need to do is eat, rest, and maybe work on jogging three blocks.” He grinned over his shoulder at Stiles as he rinsed his plate.

Stiles stretched his arms over his head, then brought his own plate over to the garbage, scooping the last few uneaten bites of pancake in. It was second nature now, cleaning everything as he went. Peter hated messes. If there was a silver lining, it was that he’d developed a few good habits over that year. “Or maybe I just keep dating old dudes,” Stiles suggested flippantly. “But maybe not old-old anymore. I used to find grays in Peter’s pubes. That’s too old.” He brought his plate to the sink to rinse.

“Jesus,” Derek muttered. “Too much information. But, yes, please try to avoid men who are old enough to be your father.” Derek started clearing the table.

Leaning a hip against the counter, Stiles stared out the window and hummed thoughtfully. “He said that was why I liked him. Because I’ve got daddy issues and needed a positive father figure in my life.” Stiles snorted, then started to rinse out the batter bowl, too. “So much for that. I think I’ve had damn near enough father figures in my life. Doesn’t ever work like it should. I’m done with it.”

“He’s the one that’s got issues,” Derek assured him, sounding angry.

“Do I talk about him too much?” Stiles asked.

Derek shook his head as he wrapped up the leftover pancakes. “I think it’s good to talk about him. He was a big part of your life, and you went through some shit. I think I’d be more worried if you didn’t talk about him at all.” He put them in the fridge. “Do I push too much? Ask too many questions?”

“Nah,” Stiles said. “You’re cool. You don’t freak out when I tell you fucked up shit. I think that’s the only thing I couldn’t stand. But with your job, you’ve probably seen everything.” With everything cleaned up, he headed for the living room. Derek followed along, and they settled onto the couch.

“I’ve seen a lot of fucked up shit on the force,” Derek agreed. “But I’ve been through my own share.”

Stiles hesitated, then said, “Like your family.”

“Yeah. Like that.” Derek looked down at his knees for a moment, then back up at Stiles. “The woman that arranged the fire – Kate Argent – she seduced me to get information about my family.”

Mouth dropping open in an ‘O’ of shock, Stiles stared at Derek, not sure what to say. Peter had told him that someone in the pack lead their enemies to them. It had never occurred to him that it had been Derek.

“I was fifteen. She was… well, she was a little older than I am now. She made me think she loved me, that I loved her. But she was controlling. I was too young to see the warning signs.”

“Kids are easy targets,” Stiles murmured, knowing it to be true. He chewed on his lip, then reached over and touched Derek’s arm hesitantly. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

Derek nodded quickly. “I know that now. It took a while for me to get my head around that, but I do now.” He reached down and squeezed Stiles’s hand. “I was supposed to be in the house when it burned. She had been planning to kill me, too.”

It all started to piece together, the way Derek had stepped up so eagerly to help him. He hadn’t been able to get away from Kate before it was too late, but he could try to save Stiles. He slowly uncurled from his seat and leaned across the couch. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s shoulders in a loose, somewhat awkward sideways hug, his chin on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you,” Stiles said softly. “For saving me.”

“You don’t have -” Derek started to protest, but Stiles cut him off.

“He would have killed me,” he said firmly. “I know that now.”

Derek tipped his head to the side so his temple was resting on Stiles’s head. He squeezed Stiles’s forearm. “I had to get you out of there. I’m sorry for what he put you through.”

Stiles pulled back just enough to look Derek in the eye. He gave a soft smile. “Yeah, well.” He swallowed down a lump in his throat. “I’m out now.”

Now the biggest danger to him was a bit of heartbreak over living with the most gorgeous, sweetest, straightest guy in the world. That was a kind of danger he could live with, though. Just to appease himself, Stiles leaned up and planted a kiss on Derek’s temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: NOTHING NEW! We are past the point of horrible new surprises every day!


	26. Energy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles meets Deaton.

“So this guy is like, what, Mr. Miyagi? Pai Mei? Obi Wan?” Stiles asked, his leg jiggling.

Derek gave him a deadpan sort of look as they rolled to a stop at an intersection. “You think maybe you’ve been watching too many movies?”

He had been. In the absence of any real hobbies or jobs or endless meetings with attorneys, Stiles was pretty sure he was close to doing the impossible: watching every single movie on Netflix.

There were _so many bad movies_.

“Okay, okay, but you know what I mean,” Stiles insisted.

After their big discussion about Stiles’s FutureTM, Derek had made some calls and gotten in touch with the man who had been his mother’s emissary, who was willing to meet with Stiles and teach him a bit about magic.

“That’s not exactly the vibe I get from Deaton,” Derek settled on.

“Dumbledore?”

“Stiles.”

Stiles huffed a heavy sigh and sank back into his seat. A couple of minutes later, they were pulling into the parking lot. Wait, the parking lot of -

“The veterinary clinic?” Stiles sat up a little straighter.

“Deaton’s day job. He’s a veterinarian.”

“Scott used to work here,” Stiles said. “Do you think Deaton knows about him getting bit?”

“You’ll have to ask,” Derek suggested. “I think he’s been out of that world for a while now.”

Deaton turned out to look very _unlike_ Mr. Miyagi or Dumbledore, but his calm, aloof demeanor wasn’t that far off at all. He welcomed the two of them and brought them into a fluorescent-lit office-slash-breakroom, where he invited Stiles and Derek to sit at the break table and offered tea. And offering tea was _so_ some Dumbledore-Miyagi shit.

“So a day job, huh? Being a spark doesn’t pay that well, I take it,” Stiles piped up while Deaton filled the electric kettle.

Deaton looked over at him immediately, eyes sharp and assessing. “You’re a spark,” he said slowly. It didn’t _sound_ like a question, but it also gave Stiles the impression that Deaton wasn’t very familiar with the concept of a question either, so that might be as close as he got.

Stiles frowned and looked over at Derek, confused. He had assumed that ‘He’s a Spark’ had been in the opening pitch of _Please Tutor My Very Sad Roommate: A PowerPoint Presentation_, but apparently not.

“Are… are you not?” he asked.

The veterinarian busied himself with getting tea from the cabinet while the kettle heated up. “No. I’m a druid, and I practice magic, but it doesn’t come naturally to me in the way it would a spark. Sparks are very rare.”

“Peter told him he was a spark,” Derek supplied. “He didn’t know.”

Deaton was frowning at the tea diffuser thoughtfully. “I wonder what might have lead him to that conclusion.” So close to a question, yet so very far.

“He tried to turn me,” Stiles said, “And it didn’t work.”

Deaton hummed and turned, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his chest. “Well, to answer your question,” he said, and Stiles made a note that he at least knew questions _existed_. “Being an emissary can be a paying occupation, depending on the pack, or it can be more of a calling, something you do for the other opportunities it affords.”

“Like an unpaid internship,” Stiles supplied brightly. Derek stepped on his foot gently in reprimand.

Deaton continued, undeterred. “Sparks are highly in-demand, though. A spark would be able to get a paying gig easily, if he were trained.” He was studying Stiles like a particularly tricky puzzle and didn’t stop until the kettle shut off. Deaton turned back to pour the tea. “There are a few types of people that can’t be turned by a werewolf bite. But, as far as I know, a spark could be turned. Theoretically. I’ve never heard of a case, though. What might give us a better idea is how you felt after he bit you and how the bite healed.”

“Huh?” Stiles responded, always the elegant conversationalist. “Oh. No, he didn’t… he didn’t actually bite me. He tried to, but he acted like I tazed him in the mouth or something, freaked out.”

Deaton smiled at that, and Stiles didn’t know if he liked it any better than that pensive expression. “I take it you didn’t want to be turned,” he supposed.

“No,” Stiles agreed.

Deaton brought a teapot and three cups of tea over to the table, then sat down. “It wasn’t that he couldn’t turn you because a spark can’t be turned, Stiles,” Deaton told him. “He couldn’t bite you because your will manifested itself as magical energy and fought him. He must have seen some visual clue to put the pieces together, though.”

A visual clue. Stiles’s mind flashed back to those dreams, the swirls under his skin. Could Peter have seen something like that but never told him?

Derek took his teacup once Deaton had poured it for him, and it looked a little ridiculous in the hands of a big, muscular werewolf-cop. “Peter probably told you what he did because he didn’t want you to know you had any sort of power over him,” he said gently.

Stiles looked from Deaton to Derek, waiting for one of them to crack and say they were joking. He had kept Peter from turning him just because he didn’t want to be a wolf that badly. If that was the case, why hadn’t he had the power to stop anything else? Had he been more afraid of being turned than he had of being used by strangers? Of being fucking tortured? He felt a little queasy and shook his head. “I don’t… maybe it was something else. I haven’t done anything else.”

“Abilities like that can be fickle,” Deaton said. “The bite of an alpha werewolf is an act already charged with magic. That your innate magic would rise up in response isn’t all that surprising.”

He didn’t really get it, but then Derek reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “You said you had dreams after, right? About trees and being able to do things?” Stiles nodded and sipped his tea.

“Why don’t we start with an easy test,” Deaton suggested. He rose from his seat and left the room for a moment, returning with a little wooden box. Derek wrinkled his nose immediately, leaning back in his seat and making a disapproving noise.

“What is it?” Stiles asked.

“Mountain ash,” Derek answered. “It’s essentially werewolf repellent.”

The idea of something like that caught Stiles’s attention immediately. He really liked Derek, but the thought of being able to fight off Peter with something like that was a tempting security.

Deaton set the box on the table and opened it for Stiles to see the black powder inside. “It can create barriers for supernatural entities like werewolves. I want you to take a small pinch in your hand, then go to that back door.” He pointed to the door that lead through to the kennel.

Stiles took a small bit in his hand, then walked over and waited for instruction.

“Make a line,” Deaton said gently, nodding his head in encouragement. “Across the doorway.”

Looking down at the powder in his hand – a small pinch, as Deaton had instructed – Stiles frowned. “I don’t think I took enough,” he said.

“I want you to think to yourself that you did. You have enough. Close your eyes, and concentrate on that idea. Visualize what the line will look like. Then make the line.”

Stiles nodded, closed his eyes. Right. He had enough. Sure he did. Plenty. And when he made the line, it was going to be black powder from one side of the doorway to the other, solid black. He let the powder trickle from his hand slowly as he pulled it across the open doorway.

When he opened his eyes, Derek and Deaton were both staring at him, Deaton with a knowing little smile, Derek in open-mouthed awe. “Well, I think that’s our answer,” Deaton said.

Stiles looked down and saw just what he’d pictured in his head: a solid black line of powder all the way across the door. It was way more powder than he’d brought over.

Derek stood and walked over to him, reaching a hand for him. But his hand hit an unseen barrier, a little red spark of energy lighting in the air. “See? I can’t get through now.”

“You can break the barrier by simply breaking the line,” Deaton explained, and Stiles did so immediately, pushing through it with his toe.

“So what do you think? Will you train him?” Derek asked.

Deaton nodded. “I think that would be a good idea. You’re very powerful, Stiles.”

No one had ever told him that before in his life, and Stiles didn’t know what to make of it.

“You said something about visual clues,” Stiles said as he returned to the table. “What sort of things could Peter have seen?”

Deaton narrowed his eyes at Stiles with a knowing expression. “You’re not asking because you don’t know,” he said slowly. “You’ve seen it. The glow.”

Stiles shook his head. “Only in the dreams. It was a glow under my skin. Swirls.” He frowned, brow furrowed. “Or – maybe I did see it once, not in a dream. It all kind of got mixed up for a while.”

“A spark’s power is a manifestation of light, hence the name. When a spark exerts energy into their powers, they sometimes…” Deaton waved a hand toward Stiles vaguely. “...glow.”

* * *

  
  


They finished their tea, Deaton talking through some general topics that they would cover while he learned how to be an emissary. They talked about Scott, who Deaton did know about. He’d been covering for Scott with his mom, backing up the story that he’d gotten a college prep internship with a veterinary program in Portland.

When Stiles and Derek got up to leave, Derek hesitated.

“Could Stiles take some of that with him?” Derek asked, gesturing at the box of mountain ash. Deaton raised an eyebrow, and Stiles looked downright confused. Derek turned to him and explained, “I don’t think Peter is going to come after you at this point, but maybe it would help you feel safer.”

“I’ll put some in a bag,” Deaton said softly, picking up the box and carrying it back to the other room.

Stiles fidgeted with his empty teacup. “Isn’t it going to smell bad in your apartment?”

“Just stick it near your laundry pile, and I won’t be able to smell a thing,” Derek said with a smirk.

Stiles huffed a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”

* * *

In the car on the way back, Derek looked over at Stiles and said, “This could be really good for you.”

“Yeah?” It was all a bit bizarre, hard to get his head around. More than anything, Stiles found himself terrified to hope that something better might be coming his way. The last time he’d had real ambitions at a better life, well…

“Yeah,” Derek said, confident. “The thing you did with the mountain ash? People train to be able to do something like that, and you did it like it like you didn’t even have to think about it.”

Stiles shrugged a shoulder. “I guess it kind of feels weird, taking credit for something I don’t have to try at, you know?”

With a snort, Derek honked at the car ahead of them, clearly too busy texting to see the light change. “Everyone uses things that come naturally to them or things they didn’t work for. Do you know how easy the fitness testing for the police academy is when you’re a werewolf? Or what about having family money to pay for classes? Hell, even really smart people that can coast through school without trying are using skills they didn’t have to work for. Use the advantages you have, Stiles. You’ve had more than enough shit working against you in your life.”

When he looked at it that way, this whole spark situation seemed like a sort of olive branch from the universe. _Sorry you’ve been fucked in literally every other way, here’s a consolation prize_. Stiles would just have to make damn sure he made the prize count for something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now taking predictions for the remaining 5 chapter titles! No, I won't tell you if they're correct or not, but I'm interested to see what E words y'all can muster up.


	27. Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Scott reunite!

They did the math during their first reunion. It had been two and a half years since Stiles and Scott had last seen each other, since that night Stiles came over desperate to get out of the cold, and Scott had let him sleep in his bed.

It wasn’t the first thing that came up, of course. First there had been hugging and joking, Stiles grabbing Scott’s hand to make sure he hadn’t gone and popped a finger boner.

“Oh my god, you have _got_ to stop calling claws that.”

“I will _never_ stop calling it that.”

Scott had gotten his shift under control and with it his anger, his resentment at having his whole life turned upside-down by Peter. They’d already gone over a lot of that on the phone, Stiles breaking down crying and confessing that he thought Peter had done it because he wanted to give Scott to him as a gift. Scott had growled, hung up, then called back half an hour later to explain:

“_I promise, I’m not angry at you. Stiles, I could never be angry at you for the shit that psycho did. You know that, right? None of it is your fault.”_

They had been rekindling their friendship by phone for nearly three months before Satomi agreed they could meet in person. Stiles realized, perhaps a bit belatedly, that she probably hadn’t just been waiting for Scott to be more in control but was also waiting for Stiles to look less like he’d been starved nearly to death. Nothing set Scott off as easily as Peter.

They didn’t end up talking about that night, the night a shivering 15-year-old Stiles threw rocks at Scott’s window, until they were settled into a blanket nest on Scott’s bedroom floor, both flipping through pictures on their phones to share with one another. Scott showed him pictures of people they’d both known in school so he could see what they looked like now. Stiles showed him his hilarious album of Derek Glaring While Performing Menial Tasks.

“You think maybe you have too many pictures of Derek?” Scott suggested with a knowing smirk.

Stiles lifted his chin, feigning ignorance. “What? I have a very limited social circle, Scott. An artist works with what he’s got handy.”

Scott tapped on his screen, where Derek was looking unamused at a basket full of unfolded laundry. He was also wearing a tank top that showed off his biceps and shoulders beautifully. “Very artistic,” he teased.

“Shut up,” Stiles said cheerfully, then leaned to look at Scott’s phone. “So what does Lydia Martin look like these days? Is she still in Beacon Hills?” She had always been spectacularly mean to Stiles in grade school, which made him want to be her friend all the more.

Scott shook his head. “No, man. That was actually super sad. Sophomore year, she went into this fugue state, wandering the woods naked in the middle of winter. Everyone was worried she was going to die out there. And then after they found her, she got transferred out. There were a bunch of rumors that she went to Eichen House, but I don’t know.”

“That’s fucked up,” Stiles murmured. He didn’t remember the incident, but he remembered the winter, remembered the cold. “That was around the time… I mean, the last time we saw each other. It was that winter, right?”

Scott nodded. “Right after. I was so freaked out, man. You disappeared after that, and I didn’t see you again. Then Lydia went missing, and I thought maybe there was some sort of kidnapper or murderer on the loose, and I couldn’t tell anyone about you disappearing.”

Stiles ducked his head, lifting his knees so he could hang his arms between them. “Sorry. I was fucking embarrassed about the whole thing. I didn’t think I could ever look you in the face again.”

After a moment of silence, he felt arms wrap around him tight, Scott’s face against his shoulder. “I wanted to do more, Stiles. I swear. You were like my brother, and I didn’t know how to help you. My mom didn’t either. It was like you were floating away and we didn’t have any way to get you back.”

Turning into the hug so they were both standing on their knees, Stiles wrapped his arms around Scott’s neck and felt his eyes start to water. It did feel like he’d been drifting, helpless against the current. It felt like they’d both been pulled down different forks of a river, headed to wildly different places. Yet here they were, back together.

“You’re still my brother, Scott,” he said.

* * *

  
  


That night, Stiles dreamed about the clearing and the tree stump for the first time since leaving Peter’s. It felt different than those other dreams, though. Hazier. He stood on top of the stump. A group of people stood around it in the dark of a moonless night, mostly in shadow. Scott and Derek stood at the front of the group, the only two he could see clearly, looking up at Stiles expectantly.

Glancing at his hands, he saw the familiar swirls of yellow-orange light under his skin. The tree stump seemed to glow dully in response, a deep red that pulsed liked a heartbeat. Stiles felt himself reaching out toward the tree’s pulse, trying to feel his way into it. Faintly, running out along the roots of the tree and into the surrounding clearing, the red glow trailed outward, still pulsing. It felt like it was searching for something.

Stiles blew out a slow breath and concentrated, the way Deaton had been teaching him. Clearing his mind, focusing on the vibrations of energy inside of himself. Feeling the way it blended with the tree’s energy at the soles of his feet. He went slowly onto one knee, placing his palm flat against the wood, and he pushed. The glow in his hand immediately flared brighter, and the red glow surged in response, skating outward along the roots, through the grass, through the earth. It shot under the feet of the group that stood watching him.

Another push, another flare of light. In this one, he saw glimpses of their faces. The only one he recognized was Parrish.

One more push, and Stiles was surrounded for a moment by that same brilliant, blinding white light. The red glow surged out in all directions, was gone for a beat, then came rushing back at the tree trunk, back at Stiles, surrounding him. It felt stifling, red-hot.

As it receded, Stiles stood in the near pitch-black of the clearing, no light from his skin, no light from the tree. But in his hands he held a ball of red glowing energy, almost too hot for comfort. He looked in the direction where Derek and Scott and Parrish and the others had been. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then, one by one, like candles blinking into view, sets of glowing eyes. Maybe a dozen. Yellow, orange, blue. All fixed straight ahead, all fixed on Stiles.

* * *

  
  


After that first day back together, he and Scott continued to hang out as they were able to – when Stiles didn’t have therapy or lessons with Deaton, when the moon wasn’t full, and when one of them was able to get a ride to the other.

Scott didn’t have a car, and Stiles didn’t have his license yet. Derek had been teaching him. Once he did get his license, Stiles had his eye on an old Jeep that had been listed on Craigslist for six months. It reminded him of one that had stood, rusting, in the Stilinski driveway when he was a kid. Apparently, it had been his mom’s, and his dad hadn’t had the heart to sell it.

But until Stiles could get his nostalgia Jeep, he and Scott were dependent on being chauffeured to one another for what Derek teasingly called “play dates” as often as they could manage. Scott was starting at a community college in the fall, and Stiles was going to start in a GED program around the same time, so they had agreed to make the most of the summer.

‘The most’ involved a lot of video games, which they’d both missed out on over the ordeals of that year. Stiles hadn’t had the reaction time for it since Peter tried to bite him in February. Scott had been with Satomi, who didn’t own a video game console, since Peter _did_ bite him in December. Stiles had bought himself a PS4 with his first payment of hush money. A late birthday present, he liked to call it. Or, ‘_You deserve nice things and don’t need to justify a purchase like that_,’ as his therapist put it.

All in all, he and Scott had decided that at least part of Peter’s evil scheming had to do with keeping them both from becoming _Grand Theft Auto_ champions of the world.

“Fuckfuck – I’m losing him, cut through the alley!” Stiles yelled, leaning dramatically to the side as he turned with the controller.

“Dude, how am I supposed to catch him now?” Scott moaned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. They both groaned, and Stiles tossed his controller onto the coffee table before flopping back against the couch cushions.

“Life of crime not paying off?” Derek asked as he emerged from the hallway. He was in uniform – short sleeves for summer, and they hugged his biceps in a way that was just not fair.

“I guess I won’t cancel those GED classes yet,” he agreed. “Regular shift today, Officer?”

Derek nodded. “Scott, you’re welcome to stay for dinner when I get back or I can drive you home first, whatever you want to do.”

“I can stick around,” Scott agreed amiably. He waved as Derek headed out the door, then sat very still in a way that Stiles had come to learn meant that a werewolf was listening until another werewolf was out of earshot. They all did it, too.

“What?” Stiles prompted, impatient.

After a moment, Scott turned back to Stiles, a knowing smirk on his face. “_Regular shift today, Officer?_” Scott mocked, batting his eyelashes obnoxiously.

“What!” Stiles huffed, defensive.

“You’ve got the hots for Derek,” he said with complete confidence.

“Whaaaaat?” Stiles squeaked, looking down and waving a hand at Scott. “That’s stupid. You’re crazy.”

Scott laughed and got up, grabbing his empty water glass off the coffee table and heading for the kitchen. “Does he know?” he asked.

“Does he know?” Stiles scoffed, like it was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “What am I gonna do, tell the guy I’m living with – the _straight _guy I live with – that I think he’s hot? Yeah, that would totally go over well and not make everything super awkward.”

“Did he tell you he’s straight?” Scott asked from the kitchen over the sound of running water.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “People don’t come out as straight, Scott,” he called back. “It’s your heterosexual privilege. Everyone is assumed straight until you either make a big, tearful confession or join the show choir. Though I guess joining the _police force_ is the heterosexual equivalent.”

“There’s gay cops,” Scott argued as he came back into the living room.

“I’m not talking about lesbians.”

“Har, har, you’re hilarious,” Scott deadpanned. “I’m serious.”

“Name one that isn’t in the Village People.”

Scott frowned, standing next to the couch with his brow furrowed. Finally, he said, “Okay, well, I don’t know that many cops. Doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”

“_Anyway_,” Stiles continued, “Civil servitude aside, I think it would have come up by now.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Scott said, shrugging and sounding a little disappointed.

“What, were you shipping us?” Stiles snorted.

Scott plopped down onto the couch and sipped at his water. “I ship you with anyone nice and, like, sane and stuff.”

Stiles bumped their shoulders together. “That’s sweet, Scotty-boy. I think I’m laying off the dating game, though. What about you? Any lady love on the horizon?”

“You mean while I’ve been holed up in Satomi’s trying not to maul anyone?” Scott asked drolly.

“Yeah, any princes come by your tower, Rapunzel?”

Scott rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “There was a really cute girl at the campus visit I went on last week,” he offered. “Kira. She’s kind of awkward, but in a cute way. She’s starting in the fall, too.”

“Sounds like the start of a love story to me,” Stiles assured him. “You should ask her out if you run into her once school starts.”

For a moment, Scott was quiet, shifting and frowning. “I dunno. I think I’d be afraid I might...” He shook his head. “Besides, I’d have to lie to her. Keep things from her. I don’t know how I’m supposed to date someone like this.”

Stiles blew out a slow breath, not sure how to reassure Scott. He had a good point, after all. “Well, for the record, I refuse to do one of those ‘if we’re both single at forty we get married’ pacts. No way, no how. You’d be an awful husband.”

“I’d be the best husband!” Scott said, sounding honestly offended.

Cackling, Stiles shoved at his shoulder. “Yeah, right.”

“I’ll have you know, I can be _very_ romantic. I’d bring you flowers all the time. I’d remember anniversaries and birthdays and all that.”

“The sex would be bad,” Stiles pointed out.

“Oh, yeah,” Scott agreed, lips twisting into a thoughtful frown.

“How about this,” Stiles said. “If we’re both single at forty, we drive off a cliff, _Thelma and Louise_ style.”

“Are you Thelma in this scenario?”

“What? No way, you’re totally Thelma. I’m a badass.”

Scott grinned. “Alright, badass. Pick up your controller and let’s try this mission again.”


	28. Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds something very interesting in Derek's search history.

Stiles didn’t really use the computer much, but every once in a while he got bored or needed to look something up and didn’t feel like using his phone. For those occasions, he borrowed Derek’s laptop. He’d asked for permission the first time and never bothered after that.

Maybe that wasn’t the best idea, though. Or maybe it was. Because when he started typing into the search bar for YouTube, it suggested YouPorn – the gay side. His eyes went wide. Derek hadn’t come home from work yet, but he was due within the hour.

Stiles started frantically scouring the search history, pulling up every gay porn video Derek had watched in the past month – and there were quite a few. The funny thing was, they were all kind of… _cute_. Boyfriend cams. ‘Making love.’ A lot of still-camera amateur stuff. Stiles still had one of the videos playing when Derek opened the door.

“What’re you -” was all he heard from the doorway.

Stiles tipped his head back so he could see Derek over the back of the couch, and he grinned wickedly. Derek was standing in the open doorway, mouth agape, blushing to the tips of his ears. After a moment, Derek seemed to recover somewhat and said, “You have a bedroom for that, you know.”

“Hey, it’s your video,” Stiles shot back.

Derek finally closed the door and made a beeline for the kitchen, so Stiles paused the video and set the laptop aside. Kneeling on the couch with his stomach against the back, arms pillowed on it, Stiles could still see him on his rapid trajectory to the fridge and – oh, yes – one of his special wolfsbane beers. Derek didn’t actually get drunk off the wolfsbane itself, he’d explained. It’s was a really weak strain, but it dulled his healing just enough that he could get a mild buzz off of alcohol.

“_Dude_,” Stiles said. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re into dudes? Or are you just into dudes in porn? Or is this some weird sort of research? I have _so_ many questions.”

Derek downed half of the beer in one go and huffed, “Research? What would I possibly be researching? God, no, I – I’m into guys, okay? It didn’t come up.”

“It didn’t come up!” Stiles squawked indignantly. He pushed up from the couch, making wide, wild gestures as he expressed his utter shock at this turn of events. “I talk about fucking guys, like, all the time! I’ve been here four months! This is crazy!”

Derek finally moved out of the kitchen, sparing Stiles a withering glance. “Yes, _you_ talk about fucking guys all the time. We don’t talk about my sex life.”

“Alright, then, tell me!” Stiles interrogated. “Gay or bi? What kind of guys are you into?” His mind was racing, desperately trying to reevaluate their relationship with this new information.

“I like men and women,” Derek said through gritted teeth.

“You’re not just into men,” Stiles insisted. “You’re into _cute_ gay porn.” He poked a finger toward Derek. “That’s adorable and you’re never living it down.”

Derek took another sip of his beer and looked heavenward. “Cute porn? What? It’s just – it’s fucking normal porn!” He held an arm extended in exasperation.

“It’s totally cute porn,” Stiles argued. “They hold hands in it. It’s precious.” God, Derek was probably the type of guy that didn’t like to fuck outside of relationships. That was so weird and cute, Stiles could hardly stand it. He walked over to the laptop, which Derek had studiously been avoiding looking at, and closed the lid. He figured he owed Derek some relief at least.

For his part, Derek went back to the front door to finally take his shoes off, clinging to his beer like it was his sole weapon on a battlefield.

“You didn’t say what type of guy you’re into,” Stiles pushed.

“Would you rather I be watching some weird porn?” Derek asked instead of answering. He was also pointedly not looking at Stiles, who hadn’t bothered with a shirt – usually didn’t these days, when he was just sitting around the house. Derek never seemed uncomfortable with it before.

Stiles had _known_ they’d had a few moments, here and there. Tension. He always told himself that he was imagining it. Ignoring his instincts! Why, oh, why did he not listen to his therapist more?

And why wouldn’t Derek tell him what he was into?

Stiles gasped, overly dramatic, arms wheeling in the air. “You’re into twinks! You are, aren’t you? Oh my god, are you into me? Not, like, whatever, but you think I’m hot?”

“It doesn’t even matter if I -”

Stiles groaned loudly and dragged a hand over his face, spazzing out as obnoxiously as possible. “Oh my _God_, Derek, this is fucking with my worldview right now.”

Derek sighed heavily, put-upon and trying his best to look irritated, even though he was still blushing. “It’s not my fault you assumed I was straight,” he said.

“Bullshit it’s not your fault!” Stiles yelped. “You’re, like, butch on legs!” He walked right up to Derek, expression all trouble. Confrontational, playful, and just a bit too pleased with himself. He stopped less than a foot from him, chin jutted up in a weak attempt to make up for their height difference.

Derek cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You totally think I’m hot,” Stiles accused.

Derek’s jaw clenched, and he set his beer on the hall table beside them.

Stiles mocked a weary sigh. “But I guess you’re right. It doesn’t matter...” On a dime, his lamenting tone turned to teasing. “I mean, based on _that_ porn, you’d probably have to give me a damn promise ring before you even kissed me...”

The tension on Derek’s face turned back to exasperation as he snapped, “Oh, come on! I’m not -” He couldn’t seem to decide it was he _wasn’t,_ and Stiles was feeling properly victorious, like he had teasing material to lord over Derek for the rest of time. And then, in a second, Derek’s hands were on his face, their lips crushed together, and Stiles’s shoulders hit the living room wall with a thud.

The kiss stole his breath, stalled his brain, and by the time it rebooted, he found that he was kissing back slowly, gasping into Derek’s mouth. A hand rose to Derek’s shoulder, and Stiles realized with a bit too much thrill that the man was still in uniform. God, that was hot.

Derek pulled back as abruptly as he’d started, and he was blushing again, looking down at the floor. “See, no promise ring needed,” he mumbled. His brow pinched.

Jesus, Stiles was in trouble here. His pulse was hammering from his chest to the tips of his fingers where they were touching Derek’s uniform shirt. As Derek started to fumble, Stiles was conflicted between panic that he was regretting the kiss and overwhelming affection, because _dear god_ was Derek cute when he blushed.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, taking a half step back. “I – fuck – I didn’t – I wasn’t -”

Stiles stepped forward and wrapped a hand around Derek’s upper arm. “Sorry for what?” he asked, voice gentle even as he tried to make light of the situation. “Sorry for stopping? Because there’s an easy way to fix that.”

Derek let out a slow breath and looked him in the eye, seemingly searching for something. Stiles tried to project his certainty, his want, and apparently Derek read him loud and clear. His arm wrapped around Stiles’s waist, pulling him close and kissing him again.

Moaning softly into the kiss, Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck to keep him close, keep him from pulling away again. Because he’d be damned if he ever stopped kissing Derek Hale after this. He kissed gentle and intense, but not the dominating, possessive kisses Stiles had grown used to. Peter’s kisses had felt like threats. This was like a promise.

Hands slipped up his sides, wrapping around his ribs, then sliding back down to his waist, never venturing lower than his waistband. Stiles had to pull back for air, but Derek stayed close, nuzzling against Stiles’s jaw, breath huffing just under his ear. Stiles had half expected him to bite or suck, leave a hickey. Instead, he got this quiet intimacy that was unexpected and so very _Derek_.

“So does this answer your question?” Derek murmured.

Stiles laughed quietly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re super into me. When do I get my promise ring?”

Derek laughed around a huff of breath, pressing his forehead against Stiles’s shoulder. Hiding. Stiles knew Derek well enough to know he was probably worried about this dynamic. Worried that he was taking advantage or crossing boundaries. Derek was always so careful with him. Stiles nudged Derek’s face up and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips. “You’re not gonna freak out about this, are you?” he asked softly.

In answer, Derek pressed their lips together again, softer this time. “Are you?” he asked.

Stiles scoffed at the question. “Okay, I’m fine. I’m better than fine. This?” He pulled back and gestured between them. “I’m awesome with this. You’re the one that just pretended to be straight for four months.” He lifted his brows, challenging Derek to argue that point.

“I wasn’t pretending,” Derek muttered, “I just wanted you to be comfortable.”

He was literally the sweetest human being in all of existence, Stiles was sure.

Stiles moved back in, even closer, and now their hips were touching. Stiles sucked in a breath at the feel of Derek’s cock through his pants. “That better not be your gun I’m feeling,” Stiles teased, running a hand down the front of Derek’s uniform, stopping short at his belt.

Derek laughed and leaned in, kissing Stiles’s shoulder, then his collarbone, working up his neck to his ear. “Wanna find out?”

“God yes,” Stiles breathed. He turned to kiss Derek again, a bit hungrier now. His hand moved around to Derek’s back, tugging his shirt out of his pants, then slid up to touch the skin of his lower back. “Should we...” Stiles was about to suggest the bedroom, but that seemed like too much pressure for this moment. The bedroom was where you went for sex-sex. This felt more like… fooling around. “Couch?” he suggested.

“Only if you want to.”

“Oh, I want to.”

Derek held Stiles by the hips and kissing him as he lead them toward it. He sank into the middle of the couch and pulled Stiles on top of him, so he was straddling his lap. Resting one arm on the back of the couch, Stiles cradled Derek’s head in the other to keep him close.

“You’re so beautiful,” Derek murmured, sounding like he had only meant to think it. Then his hands finally slipped down to grip Stiles’s ass properly, pressing their hips together. Stiles gave a small moan and rolled his hips down, then started in on the buttons of Derek’s uniform shirt.

Stiles could have made out like that for ages, but they’d both apparently been restraining themselves for months now, and he didn’t want to make them wait too much longer. His knees squeezed around Derek’s hips. With a hand on his shoulder, Stiles shifted back onto the cushions, pulling Derek along and on top of him, still working his way down the buttons until the front of his shirt was open, and Stiles had unfettered access to his gorgeous chest.

Derek ground their hips together as they kissed, pulling Stiles’s legs up and around his waist. “Fuck,” he breathed against Stiles’s lip.

“I need to touch you,” Stiles said, starting in on Derek’s belt buckle.

“Yeah,” Derek breathed back, and that was all the permission Stiles needed before he was tugging his belt out of the way, undoing the button on his pants. He slipped his hand down the front, feeling Derek through his underwear.

“Jesus,” Stiles murmured against Derek’s lips. “Does it make me sound slutty if I’m super into how big you are?”

The front of Derek’s briefs were wet with precome already, and he made a sound half between a groan and a laugh. He half expected a jab about how it was no secret that Stiles was super slutty, but instead Derek just said, “No.” Then he ducked down to kiss at Stile’s neck and sighed, “Please, Stiles.”

Stiles took the request seriously, unspoken as it was, and worked Derek’s uniform pants down and out of the way, then his underwear, and soon had his hand wrapped around bare skin.

Derek groaned. “Oh, fuck. Stiles.”

Derek’s cock was hard and heavy in his hand, and Stiles was tempted to taste it. Even that felt outside the bounds of this groping make-out session they had going on. Instead, he just kissed at Derek’s chest and collar, pushing the fabric of his shirt out of the way. He rubbed his thumb over the head of Derek’s cock, smearing precome.

Shifting to support himself on one hand, Derek slipped the other between them to push at Stiles’s sweats. “I want to feel you. Is this okay?” Stiles nodded, and Derek wasted no more time before he had a hand wrapped around both of their cocks together, thrusting shallowly into their joined hands. Derek looked at him, an intensity on his face that made Stiles moan, then leaned down to crush their lips together again.

Stiles was addicted to these kisses, moaning filthy and loud into them as he leaned up for another and another and another. As he got more worked up, he couldn’t focus properly on kissing. Instead, he just kept them close with a hand on the back of Derek’s neck, panting against his lips. “God, I’m not gonna last long,” he mumbled.

Derek pulled back a bit and moaned, and Stiles realized he was looking down at their cocks, so he did as well. Their hands together formed a tight circle, which they were both thrusting erratically into. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Derek,” he gasped. Derek picked up speed at that, and he came with a whimper just a moment before Stiles followed suit, watching as they spilled onto his stomach.

Stiles collapsed back against the cushions, gasping for breath. “Oh my god, Derek,” he breathed, pulling his hand from between them. He paused, then looked up at Derek with a mischievous smile and started to lick his hand clean, keeping purposeful eye contact.

“Christ,” Derek huffed, shaking his head. He nudged Stiles’s hand aside and kissed him hard and thorough. “You’re a mess,” he said when he pulled back, then looked back down at Stiles’s come-streaked stomach.

He really did look like a mess, sweats bunched around his thighs, face flushed. Derek pushed up onto his knees and tugged his pants back up. Stiles just grinned at him and stretched his arms long over his head. “You do look really hot in that uniform,” he informed him.

“I’ll wear it twenty-four-seven if that’s what happens when I wear it,” Derek answered immediately.

Stiles barked a laugh, then finally tugged his sweats up and stood. “So… I’m gonna shower before we have the whole what-does-this-mean talk. He leaned forward and pecked Derek on the lips. “And you should get the come off your uniform if you’re going to wear it twenty-four-seven.”

When he pulled back, Derek’s brow was pinched with concern. “Stiles, was… was that okay?” he asked softly, looking anxious. “I mean, I did – that was fucking hot, but I’m not...”

For a moment, Stiles misread Derek’s words entirely. He wasn’t what? Interested in being with Stiles? The jerking off was hot but he wasn’t ready for anything else? He took a half step back, frowning as he studied Derek’s face.

And all at once, it clicked into place, that self-conscious instinct replaced as he read Derek. He’d gotten very used to it over the past months. Derek was afraid of pushing him too far, like he’d always been. Stiles stepped in close again, pressing their lips together briefly. “Hey, don’t worry. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to, okay? Jesus, Derek, that was… I really like you, okay?”

Derek nodded, fingers slipping around the base of Stiles’s skull. “Okay. Okay. I like you, too.”

“Okay,” Stiles echoed, lips twisting into a little smile.

“Shower,” Derek said. “We’ll talk.”

But Stiles kissed Derek again instead, letting it linger. God, he wanted to invite Derek to come shower with him, but he knew they probably needed to talk before they got lost in themselves again.

After spending a bit too long kissing, he finally pulled away and went down the hall. For once in his life, he took a quick shower. Stiles returned to the living room in clean shorts, no shirt. “Beer? I think this calls for beer,” he declared. Derek usually didn’t let him drink, being an officer of the law and all.

Derek had gotten changed into a clean pair of sweats, and for once had foregone his own shirt. Maybe he’d been covering up to preserve Stiles’s Puritan virtue up until now. “There’s no regular beer, and you don’t want the wolfsbane,” Derek said. “Besides, you’re underage.”

“Party pooper,” Stiles scolded, but he was smiling. He went to the kitchen and returned with two sodas. If he didn’t get a beer, Derek didn’t get a second one.

Derek had settled on one end of their defiled couch, so Stiles took the opposite.

“Alright, so… I guess we should start with, y’know, what do you want?” Stiles suggested. He took a sip of his soda. Stiles was pretty damn sure of what he wanted at this point, but he didn’t want to influence Derek unnecessarily. After all, he wasn’t the one that had hidden his sexuality for months.

“I want you to be happy,” Derek answered immediately.

Stiles rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to argue, but Derek continued.

“I like you. A lot. I have for a while, and I just…” Derek sighed and looked away, taking a sip of his soda. “I don’t want to take advantage of you, and I know you’ve been through a lot. I like you for more than just sex. I want you to know that. It’s not just sex for me.”

Stiles started to peel his soda label. “Okay,” he agreed. Derek actually liked him. It made him feel warm all over, and Stiles had to work to focus on the conversation, not the way his heart was hammering in his chest. “I know you’d never take advantage,” Stiles assured him quietly. He took another sip, then scooted forward and wrapped a hand around Derek’s wrist, just wanting some kind of contact. “I want to be with you. If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Derek said firmly, no hesitation. “I want to be with you.” Then the hesitation crept in, Derek withdrawing from him just slightly. “It’s not too soon for you? I understand if you want time.”

Stiles knew it was soon. His bruises from Peter had faded, but he had a long way to go before he was recovered. But he also didn’t see a way to throw the brakes on this now that they’d already set things in motion. “I mean, I’d say let’s take things slow, but we already kind of live together, so...” Stiles huffed a laugh. “What’re we gonna do, Derek? Pretend this never happened? Pretend we’re not, like, jerking off to each other in the shower?” He shook his head. “I don’t want time. I want you.” It sounded hokey even as he said it, but Stiles didn’t give a shit. This was Derek. He’d never poke fun at Stiles’s feelings.

“You can keep sleeping in your own room,” Derek suggested, then quickly added, “But, I mean, you’re welcome to stay with me if you want.” He sighed, looking a little frazzled, took a sip.

Stile hadn’t even considered if he would start sleeping in Derek’s room. He’d mostly stayed in his own while he was with Peter. On occasion, he was allowed to sleep in Peter’s bed. Sometimes he asked and was told to sleep on the floor. They’d managed to dress his room here up a little since he first moved in. They had replaced the futon with a twin bed that fit better with the other furniture in the tiny second bedroom. “I’ll think about it,” Stiles said.

“I want you, too,” Derek assured him. “And I want you to be happy, I mean it.” He leaned forward, pressing their lips together and carding a hand through Stiles’s hair. “I want you to talk to me, okay? If I do anything to upset you or make you uncomfortable...”

Derek knew about his abuse – maybe not all the details, but he knew the severity, the shape and color of it. He knew there was a lot of it, mostly sexual in nature. And he knew that Stiles had let a lot of it happen. “I know,” he agreed. “I didn’t say anything was wrong when I was with… him. Because I knew he didn’t care. I know you care. I’ll say something, I promise.”

By the way Derek was looking at him, Stiles thought he was listening for his heartbeat. He didn’t usually use those types of tactics on Stiles, but this was important. He needed to be able to trust Stiles to tell him when something was wrong. “Thank you,” he said, then smiled softly. “Come here.”

Derek pulled Stiles into his lap, looping his arms around his waist and hugging him close. Stiles laughed as Derek pressed his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck and shoulder.

“Are you smelling me right now?” he asked, amused.

“Maybe,” Derek said, muffled.

Stiles remembered that afternoon, in the reserve, where Peter told Stiles that he smelled like Peter, Peter’s house, Peter’s things. When he’d wondered if there was anything to his scent that was his own or if he was just a reflection of his surroundings.

“What do I smell like?” he asked.

Derek was quiet a moment, sniffing more obviously. Then he rested his temple on Stiles’s shoulder. “Right here you smell a little like shaving cream. And like the body wash you just used. But you, just you? You smell kind of like the air smells right after a lightning storm.”

Stiles tipped his neck to the side, allowing Derek to nuzzle in again until he hit an unexpected ticklish spot, the edge of stubble against the nape of his neck. Stiles yipped another laugh and squirmed back until Derek’s face was free of his neck. Stiles kissed him and mumbled, “Ticklish.”

A dangerous mischievousness passed over Derek’s face. “Oh, really?” he hummed, fingers finding Stiles’s sides and digging in lightly.

“No, no!” Stiles squealed, laughing as Derek shifted them around so Stiles was on his back on the couch, Derek above him.

“Where else are you ticklish?” he asked.

“You’re such a jerk!” Stiles snickered. He hooked a leg around the man’s lower back, then the other so his legs were wrapped around him. He wasn’t strong or heavy enough to push Derek off, so his next move was to latch onto him like a starfish, arms and legs wrapped tight around him and face pressed against his shoulder.

“Sorry, I’ll stop,” Derek assured him, smoothing a hand over his back.

“It’s okay,” Stiles assured him quickly. “I like you even when you’re a jerk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the Sterek smut you all deserve! Next chapter will be more, because Stiles had earned it and so have you!


	29. Ecstasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 100% fluffy hanky-panky because you've earned it.

Stiles went to his own bed that night. Derek had kissed him again, kissed him breathless, then when Stiles was about to ask if he should stay in Derek’s room, the man just echoed his own words back to him: think on it.

So he went to his room, settled into bed, and stared at the ceiling for a solid half hour before he growled quietly to himself, restless. God, there was no way his brain was going to calm down after a day like today. Not on its own anyway.

He crept out into the hall, poked his head around and into Derek’s open doorway. “Derek?” he whispered. He didn’t want to go waking him up if he was out cold. Some people in this apartment had jobs to wake up for, after all.

But Derek pushed himself up onto an elbow. “M’awake. You okay?”

Stiles stepped into the room, creeping over to the bed and slipping in under the covers on the open side. “Can’t sleep,” he said, scooting closer, lying on his back. He’d never been in Derek’s bed before. It smelled like him, like his sweat and aftershave and shampoo.

Derek shifted onto his side. “Me either.”

“I was gonna jerk off til I passed out, but then I figured, y’know… maybe I’d just jerk you off instead.” Derek laughed at that, and Stiles quickly added, “Unless you need to sleep.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” Derek assured him. He pulled Stiles closer so they were spooning, Stiles’s back to Derek’s chest. Stiles sucked in a sharp breath. Derek was in nothing but underwear, as was Stiles. “Why can’t you sleep?” Derek asked, fingers tracing over his stomach and making him shiver.

“Why do you think?” Stiles shot back. He slid a hand over Derek’s arm, tracing the lines of muscle, committing them to memory. “I keep thinking about this.” Twisting around, he found Derek’s lips with his own, light and sweet. “I like knowing how you taste,” he admitted.

“Fuck, you can’t say things like that,” Derek laughed, breathy.

Stiles squirmed around until they were chest-to-chest and kissed Derek firmly. “Lay back,” he instructed in a low tone. Derek didn’t hesitate, just did as he was told, and Stiles wiggled down, kissing the man’s collar, then chest, then disappeared under the blankets to kiss down his stomach. Derek’s hand settled on the back of his neck, just resting there, not pushing.

He’d gotten himself at an odd angle in his under-the-blankets squirming. The bed wasn’t long enough for him to be at Derek’s crotch level and not also hanging off the end of the bed, so he ended up lying stretched out sideways across the bed, just his feet hanging off the edge, face gloriously level with Derek’s hard cock. He pulled it out, then leaned in and licked up the length of it slowly. He heard Derek groan from outside the blankets, and Stiles matched the sound.

Stiles took his time with it, really letting himself explore and enjoy. The weight of Derek’s cock on his tongue, the salt of precome, the way Derek twitched and moaned at certain flicks of his tongue. For the last six months or so, oral with Peter had been, like everything else, a matter of taking orders. Now he felt like he was rediscovering all the things he used to love about giving head.

Derek’s hand slid down his back, over his ass, then gripped him by the thigh, waiting for Stiles to pull off before tugging his legs up toward the head of the bed. Derek pulled at the waist of his underwear. “Can you take these off?” he asked. “Fuck, I want to touch you.”

Stiles nodded against Derek’s thigh. “It’s okay. I like that you wanna touch me.” Stiles kissed at Derek’s thighs and balls while he wriggled out of his boxers, kicking them off. Once he was naked, he shifted more, putting his ass well within Derek’s reach before swallowing him down again. The blankets were starting to feel smothering, so he tugged those down, too.

Then it was just him, naked, lips stretched wide around Derek’s cock in the pale ambient light that trickled through the blinds. Stiles’s hips rolled, humping the bed. Derek’s hand slid over the curve of his ass, fingertips grazing close to his hole before he pulled away and tugged at Stiles’s thigh again. “I want to taste you,” he murmured.

At first, Stiles wasn’t sure what Derek meant, and he let the cock slip from between his lips to look back at him. Oh. _Oh._ It had been ages since anyone had done that for him. Peter had sucked his dick, once, as part of a punishment. Stiles licked his lips and nodded before moving into place, lying upside-down along Derek’s side and pulling at Derek’s hip to get him to roll onto his side. “Jesus, it’s not fair that you’re this hot,” he mumbled, kissing Derek’s stomach and hips, nipping the ridges of the muscles that ran down to his groin.

Derek’s fingers traced up his thighs, then wrapped around his cock. “You’re one to talk,” he mumbled, pressing the head of Stiles’s cock to his lips before he parted them and took him inside. He kept one hand curled around the curve of Stiles’s ass, fingertips teasing at his hole while he swallowed him.

Stiles moaned loudly and wrapped his lips around the head of Derek’s cock to muffle himself. He lifted his top leg, planting his foot on the bed to spread his legs as much as they could in this position, giving Derek better access. Stiles had to fight to keep his focus on the task at hand, massaging his hands gently over Derek’s thighs as he took him deeper, bit by bit. He’d sort of had it in his head to get fucked when he came in here, but this was perfect. He didn’t think he’d ever been so relaxed during sex before – well, excluding the influence of drugs.

Derek let Stiles’s cock slip from his mouth. “Do you want me to finger you?” he asked softly.

Stiles whined around his mouthful, backed off just long enough to gasp, “Yeah. Just – slow. Been a while, y’know.”

A moment later, there was a spit-slick finger at his hole, the tip teasing its way inside. Derek kissed his hip as he finger pressed in slowly and curled, fucking him shallowly. Stiles squirmed. Then Derek’s lips were back around his cock, sucking on the head as his finger explored.

God, it had been eons since anyone had done this to him. He swallowed Derek’s cock eagerly, hips moving minutely between Derek’s mouth and finger. He was doing his best to keep from moving too much. As Derek’s finger found its goal, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine, Stiles moaned around his dick and dug his fingers hard into the meat of Derek’s thighs. He had to pull back, panting, “God, there. Derek...” He whined, pressing his forehead against Derek’s hip.

Now that he’d found the sweet spot, Derek was relentless, rubbing against it in lazy circles. He pulled off of Stiles’s cock to murmur, “Right there?” a bit teasingly.

Stiles moaned and nodded. It had been so long, and he was so worked up from the intensity of it all – from the fact that this was _Derek_ – that he didn’t think he would last long.

With what was perhaps a pathetically strong thrill, Stiles realized he didn’t have to. He didn’t need permission, didn’t need to wait or not or walk away unsatisfied.

He mouthed his way back along Derek’s cock, licking up and down the length rather than taking it in his mouth, since he was jerking slightly with each grind into his prostate. “Fuck,” he mumbled. “Derek, gonna come. Little more, c’mon...” He was teetering right at the edge, pressing himself back against the fingers.

Derek took the head of his cock into his mouth and sucked, teasing the slit with his tongue.

Stiles dug his fingers into Derek’s thighs as he came, toes curling and ass clenching around his fingers. Derek kept sucking, finger milking his prostate until Stiles could hardly stand it anymore. As soon as he started coming down from orgasm, Stiles took the head of Derek’s cock into his mouth and sucked him down as quickly as he could, moaning and bobbing his head. One hand slid up to cup his balls, and he hummed. He wanted to feel Derek come apart.

It didn’t take long. Derek’s finger was still buried inside him, and he hardly had time to stammer a, “Fuck, Sti -” before he was coming down Stiles’s throat.

Stiles gave himself a moment to lay there and catch his breath, then slowly hauled himself around so he was lying right-side-up again beside Derek. “God, that was exactly what I needed,” he decided.

Derek sounded hazy. “You’re exactly what I needed.”

“You’re a dork,” Stiles accused. Then he rolled his head to the side lazily and grinned at Derek. “You are pretty brave, though,” he commented lightly. “You know, considering how my last blowjob went.” Blood and gore and a mostly severed penis. He doubted Derek had even thought about it during, but he would enjoy any belated horror now that they were in the afterglow.

Derek pressed his lips into a flat line and gave Stiles his best attempt at a glare. Given his orgasm high, he didn’t do a good job of it. “I had some confidence that it wouldn’t end the same way,” he said. He rolled onto his stomach so he was half on top of Stiles, then tucked his face into Stiles’s neck. “I haven’t done that in years,” he admitted softly.

“It was good. It was perfect,” Stiles assured him. He got the sense that Derek might not be very confident in his abilities with men. He petted Derek’s hair. “It’s been a long time since a guy’s done that for me,” Stiles said, then paused, not really wanting to talk about Peter while in bed with Derek, but knowing it wasn’t an easy topic to get around. “He wouldn’t,” he settled on.

Derek was snuggled up close, hands idly exploring his skin. “Really?” he hummed. “He missed out. You make the most beautiful sounds.” He lifted his head to kiss Stiles.

Stiles actually blushed. Derek made him feel special, and he was wracking his brain to remember if Peter had ever made him feel like that. He had to have, at some point. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have stayed as long as he did. “You said it was alright if I stay in here. Is that still okay?” Stiles asked. The thought of dragging himself out of bed and going back to his own was daunting.

“Of course,” Derek said, squeezing him. “You don’t have to ask. You can sleep in here whenever you want, Stiles.” He kissed Stiles’s jaw. “I could get used to sleeping next to you. You’re warm.”

“Says the werewolf who’s a fucking furnace,” Stiles teased. Derek was pressed all up against his side, hard muscles and soft, gorgeous skin. It was tempting to stay up to go another round, but it had already been a long night. Derek had second shift tomorrow, but he still didn’t need to be staying up until two. Stiles kissed Derek slowly and rubbed his chest. “I’ll sleep in here,” Stiles told him. “Then when we wake up, if you want...” He leaned in close, nipping Derek’s earlobe before he whispered in his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”

Derek pulled back, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Are you… we can go slow, Stiles. If you want.”

Stiles couldn’t remember the last time someone had thought he was the type of person that might want to go slow. He smiled. “I think four months of cohabitation is slow enough.” He tugged Derek back in, rubbing a hand over his short-cropped beard. “Besides, I’m so not patient enough to wait before I feel you in me.”

“You expect me to sleep now?” Derek whined.

Stiles just smirked, then lifted Derek’s arm and turned so he was playing little spoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, I can't believe I'm so close to the end of this! Thank you thank you to everyone that's hung around and commented and encouraged me. It's been ages since I wrote fic, and this has been awesome.


	30. Existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles takes things to the next level with his powers (and with Derek).

There was no moment where he had to wonder why he wasn’t in his bed or whose arm was wrapped around his chest, whose dick was hard against his lower back, whose breath was puffing against his neck. No groggy sifting through last night’s events or agonizing over whether this was a good idea.

This was Derek, and he was safe, and Stiles belonged right where he was.

He let himself doze another five minutes or so, then reached behind him, slipping a hand between their bodies to wrap around Derek’s morning wood, stroking lazily. He wasn’t quite willing to move from his comfy spot yet, but he could tease Derek until he was awake enough to tell Stiles where he kept his condoms.

Derek was making soft, breathy noises against his ear, hips pressing forward until he finally pulled Stiles tighter against him and said, “Mmm, good morning.”

Stiles hummed, pleased and comfortable and so fucking happy this hardly felt real. “Good morning,” he answered, smiling, eyes still half lidded. He guided Derek’s cock between his thighs and closed them around it, so the head was pressed against the back of Stiles’s balls. Stiles wanted more, but he wasn't in a huge hurry.

Derek bucked forward and groaned, a hand splayed out across Stiles’s stomach as he fucked between his thighs lazily.

“Mm, please tell me you have condoms in arm’s reach,” he whined.

“Yeah,” Derek agreed, teeth grazing Stiles’s neck gently. “Nightstand.” He gestured toward the one closest to Stiles. He’d have to move just slightly to reach, but he supposed it was worth the sacrifice. “You want me to fuck you?” he purred against Stiles’s ear.

“Fuck yes,” he gasped. Stiles lingered a moment longer, rubbing back against Derek before impatience finally overtook laziness. Rolling forward, he stretched across the bed on his stomach to reach the drawer, pull it open, and fish around inside. Derek’s hands followed, tracing over his hip and thigh down to the curve of his ass. Stiles found the lube first and passed it back, then dug around some more for a condom. But Derek wasn’t waiting, and by the time Stiles heard the telltale crinkle of foil in the drawer, a finger was pressing against him, easing its way in.

Hand still hanging in the nightstand drawer, Stiles stopped and whined, spreading his legs for Derek. “That okay?” Derek asked softly. Stiles nodded exaggeratedly so he wouldn’t be misunderstood. His forehead thunked down on the bed as a second finger pushed inside. “God, you’re fucking perfect,” Derek murmured, curling his fingers.

Stiles’s hand wrapped around the condom just in time before Derek was pulling him back against his chest, fingers still buried inside of him, stretching him out. “Fuck, fuck, that’s good,” Stiles breathed. Derek worked a third in, apparently in no rush to get to the main event as he stretched Stiles at a lazy pace that had him shivering and gasping. When he felt like he was getting too worked up, Stiles passed the condom back. “Oh my god, please fuck me right fucking now,” he sighed.

Derek’s fingers slipped out, and then he listened as the foil packet opened and more lube was applied. “How do you want it?” Derek asked, shifting back up against him.

Stiles thought about turning around, but they were in a spooning, cuddling position, and it felt right for their first time. With Derek’s arms wrapped around him. “Like this,” he said. “Just like this.”

There would be times, later, when Peter would come into his mind while they fucked. When a movement or position or a simple word would strike the wrong nerve, and Stiles would have to throw on the brakes. He’d apologize and swear and hate his brokenness, and Derek would squeeze his hand and kiss his fingertips and say over and over that it was okay until Stiles started to believe him.

Those times would come later. This first time, it was perfect. It was just the two of them, quiet and lazy in the morning light that crept through the blinds.

Derek lifted Stiles’s top leg, draping it backward over Derek’s own before he scooted forward and started to press against him.

The position was good for intimacy and comfort, but it wasn’t very forgiving for opening himself up. Stiles’s breath caught at the first push, and he winced at the stretch. Fuck, it had been a while, hadn’t it? Derek kissed his shoulder and rubbed at his stomach. “Breathe, Stiles,” he murmured. Stiles took a deep breath. His hands slid down and found Derek’s, lacing their fingers together as he let himself relax. Derek sank deeper into him, easier now. It felt like a long time before he could feel Derek’s hips pressed against his ass.

Stiles nodded. “It’s good. I’m good,” he assured him. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of fullness as his body adjusted. “You have a stupidly big cock, but I’m totally into it.”

Derek laughed against his shoulder, shifting back just slightly, then rocking forward. Stiles whined. “You’re so tight,” Derek rumbled, starting to rock into him slowly.

The position was good for something else, Stiles quickly discovered. The way Derek was pushing in, it was almost impossible for his dick to miss Stiles’s prostate. Not a direct hit, which would probably have been too much just then, but dragging across it on every shallow stroke. Stiles made a strangled moan, soft, and squeezed Derek’s hand tighter. It might almost have seemed like more pain if not for the way he rocked his hips back then and gasped, “Oh god. Yes, yes, fuck me. Derek.”

Derek groaned into the back of his neck, thrusts becoming a bit harder and more urgent. “Is this how you want it?” he asked, hand letting go of Stiles’s to wrap loosely around Stiles’s cock.

“Fuck, you couldn’t – ah! - do it wrong right now,” Stiles said, voice catching on a particularly hard thrust.

Derek shifted their legs to get better leverage, picking up speed. Stiles’s hand slid around to the small of Derek’s back, urging him forward.

He closed his eyes for a few moments, enjoying the dual sensations of Derek’s cock sliding into him and his hand wrapped around his own, trying not to enjoy it _too _much. Before too long, he had to pull Derek’s hand away, though. “Too much,” he admitted. “I can come like this. Just – harder. God, fuck, just like that.” His head dropped to the side against the sheets as he rode out Derek’s thrusts, little noises ripped from his throat at every thrust. He was so fucking close.

Derek went for his neck, kissing and licking and nuzzling against it. “I’m close, Stiles. Are you close?” he breathed, sounding a little desperate. His cock was bumping into Stiles’s prostate in short, ruthless little thrusts that had Stiles panting and crying out. He tumbled over the edge almost exactly as Derek asked, spilling onto the sheets and clenching hard around Derek’s cock. His hand closed around his own cock only after he started coming down, milking the last few drops from it.

He half expected Derek to come in his ass, only remembering the condom at the last minute. Derek moaned his name as he came, arms wrapped around him, holding him tight. They lay like that for long moments afterward, Derek still inside of him.

Finally, Stiles sighed, “Jesus fucking Christ. I’m gonna need you to do that for like… the rest of time. Mkay?” He twisted for a loose kiss, then reached up to rub a hand through Derek’s hair.

“I can do that,” Derek agreed, kissing his jaw, just under his ear.

Feeling oddly intimate, Stiles added, “That was… it’s been a while. I mean, you know. And that was… it was perfect.” He’d stressed a lot about the idea of becoming romantically or sexually active again. Having it be with Derek, sure that the man wanted him and was interested and cared? It took all of the fear out of the situation.

Derek pulled out gently and rolled away to discard the condom. He returned quickly, leaning over Stiles and kissing him softly. When he pulled back, the way Derek looked at him stole Stiles’s breath away. It was almost daunting, the adoration he found there. But he also felt, under that gaze, like he could do anything – including living up to what Derek saw in him.

Stiles kissed Derek slowly, taking his time. When he finally pulled back, he was flushed and grinning. “Can we just stay in bed all day?” he asked, half joking.

Derek sighed and kissed his lips, then his nose. “I’d call into work,” he said, “but you and Deaton are going to Satomi’s today, remember?”

Right. Deaton was going to show him how to take the meditation exercises they’d been working on to the next level. It was actually a huge step in his training, and Satomi was going to help out with it. As important as sex with Derek seemed right then, there was no way he was canceling.

Stiles groaned and flopped onto his back, an arm draped dramatically over his face. “Ugh, fine. I’ll get up.” He felt the scratch of stubble and lips against his exposed belly and looked down to see Derek smiling up at him.

“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” Derek promised. “Now go shower so you don’t reek of sex for the whole pack to smell, huh?”

“I would have thought you’d like that, all wolfy staking your claim?”

Derek shook his head and moved up to hover over Stiles in a plank. “No matter how we feel about one another, I’ll never own you. You’re your own person, and I just…” He trailed off, searching for words.

“You get the privilege of boning me,” Stiles suggested with a grin.

With a snort, Derek kissed him, then sat up and stretched. “I knew you’d be a romantic.”

* * *

It was brutally hot as Stiles hiked out into the woods, him and Deaton trailing after Satomi. For an old lady, she kept a damn good pace. What had been a somewhat mild summer was oozing into fall with a brutal, baking heat. Sweat soaked through the back of his t-shirt, and he had a matching stain on the front from lifting it to wipe at his face.

“Oh my God, I’m dying. How am I supposed to meditate when I’m actively melting?”

Deaton laughed, though he was huffing and sweating his fair share as well. “It’ll be cooler once we get to the top of the waterfall,” he promised.

The waterfall was the geographic center of Satomi’s territory. Since their exercise today would be to explore the mystical bounds of her pack’s territory, Deaton had explained, that would be the easiest place to get a feel for the energy.

Stiles had said, _“Oh my God, you’re literally having me meditate under a waterfall. That’s so cliché.”_

Except, no, they would be meditating at the _top_ of the waterfall, which meant hiking to the _top _of of the ridge that ran through the middle of the forest. By the time Stiles could hear the falls, he was considering throwing himself over the ridge, just to show his level of dissatisfaction at this little adventure.

He had to admit, though, it was one hell of a view.

The waterfall itself wasn’t particularly large. The stream that fed it was small enough that an athletic person could probably jump across it and a non-athletic person could certainly wade across. It narrowed at the edge of the ridge, pinched between two large stone formations, then spilled out into open air in a long arch, landing delicately in a small lake below. The forest around them was mostly pine, deep green and stretching out for miles in all directions.

Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets. “Alright. I kinda get why people meditate under waterfalls now,” he conceded.

Deaton clapped a hand on his shoulder with a grin. “Good. Then let’s get started.”

They sat in a circle, hands joined together while Deaton guided them through the meditation. It wasn’t very different than the exercises they’d done before. Empty your mind, feel the energy of the earth, let go of the physical and give in to the metaphysical. This time, though, he focused more particularly on the energies of the place and on Satomi.

“This place knows Satomi. They have a deep bond. Feel the way the energy pulls toward her, gathers around her. Feel it flowing into her, then through her into your hand. They are old friends, Satomi and this land. She protects it, and it protects her.”

With his eyes closed, Stiles could see it in a way. A warm, pulsing energy that felt alive. It reminded him of blood flowing through veins. It pooled in the ground surrounding Satomi, cradling her, then spreading outward. With every heartbeat-pulse, the energy grew stronger around them, the pool of it growing larger until it encompassed all three of them. It crept up his arm where their hands were joined, and up from the earth, into his legs, his torso. He felt it filling him, pulse by pulse.

Stiles opened his eyes and found himself standing in the forest, but it had changed. It looked off, the light skewed and slightly dim, like the sun had ducked behind a cloud, but he saw no clouds. And the grass. The grass was blue-violet. He smiled and looked down at his own hand. Swirls of yellow-orange, right where they belonged.

“This is how you see it,” Deaton said thoughtfully. Stiles turned and saw the man standing a few feet behind him, looking around at their surroundings. “It’s interesting. Very similar to the real world.” Satomi stood beside him, a patient smile on her face. She was aglow with pulsing red energy, which seemed to ebb and flow from where her feet touched the ground.

Stiles frowned in confusion. “What else would it look like?”

Deaton took a couple of casual steps toward him. “We entered this plane through your mind, so we’re seeing it through your eyes,” he explained. “People see everything through their own discrete frame of perception. It depends on your abilities, your experiences, your emotions. For an angry person, this plane may seem like a dangerous place. For someone afraid of it, it might be unsettling. For you, it’s not very strange at all. For you, it’s practically as commonplace as the waking plane of existence.”

How could he explain that he’d been here before? That this had been his refuge from a waking nightmare, a place that made sense when reality made none? He and Deaton didn’t often discuss what he’d gone through with Peter, and Stiles hadn’t gone into too much detail about his dreams during that time. Even as they got closer during lessons, the dreams felt deeply personal.

“You see the alpha spark,” Satomi noted, holding out one of her hands to inspect it. “I have never seen it this way.”

“It likes you,” Stiles blurted out, having barely had the thought before it was out of his mouth.

Deaton smiled and turned to look at Satomi. “How can you tell?”

Deaton did know how to ask questions, Stiles had learned over time, but he seemed only to ask ones that he already knew the answer to.

Stiles pursed his lips, trying to decide what had given him that impression. “There’s so much energy, it can’t all fit in her at the same time,” he explained. “It’s like it’s taking turns, moving to and from her, making sure every bit of energy gets a chance to touch her.”

“And where does it go when it’s not touching Satomi?” Deaton pressed.

They could see the glow of energy moving away from her as well as Stiles could, so he knew Deaton was looking for something better than that. He traced the surges with his mind, feeling the paths that slid outward, under his feet and away from them. It felt like they were beckoning him out.

_Follow me, follow me_.

“They go...” Stiles turned toward the ridge and walked right off the edge of it without a moment’s hesitation.

In an instant, the three of them stood in a new clearing, one he hadn’t seen before. The pulses of energy slid out into the tree line, unseen, growing weaker until they butted into an invisible sort of wall. And different energy, foreign-feeling energy, butted into it from the opposite side.

“This is the edge of my territory,” Satomi told him, though Stiles already knew, could feel that the energy on the other side didn’t recognize her, not like the energy here. “Through those trees, the Olmo pack territory begins.”

Stiles frowned, because the energy on the other side of the barrier felt more vibrant than Satomi’s did at this point. “Is their alpha stronger than you?”

Satomi’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but she settled into a smile. “No,” she said, “David Olmo is a young alpha, still learning to fill his father’s shoes. But their territory is much smaller, so their hold on it is strong.”

“Stiles, you knew how to reach the boundary here instinctively,” Deaton commented. This, Stiles recognized, was a non-question that Deaton didn’t have an answer to.

He shrugged. “I just… I sort of followed where it wanted me to go.”

“In that case, if you would, take us around the borders of the territory,” he suggested.

The next move wasn’t as effortless as the first. When Stiles started walking parallel to the border, at first he was just walking. He made a frustrated noise, then forced himself to settle, closed his eyes.

_Where is the next border_? He directed the thought at the energy.

When he opened his eyes, it was on a small stream. The energy moved into the stream and ended at another boundary halfway through. He frowned at it.

“It feels different from the other one,” he told them without looking back, knowing instinctively that they were both standing behind him. “The energy on the other was different, but it was still, like… like, the same color. The same kind. This isn’t.”

Deaton stepped up beside him. “Very good. That isn’t werewolf territory over there. Describe what it feels like to you.”

Stiles tried to feel it out, but it was muted behind the boundary. “Can I… I mean, am I going to be trespassing or something if I walk over the line?”

Deaton looked back at Satomi, who shook her head, then said, “A few steps shouldn’t matter.”

He waded into the stream, though the water didn’t feel cold or even wet. He thought about the tree he’d seen, during the first dream about the tree stump, how his hand passed through it like there was nothing there. That was what the water felt like.

On the other side of the boundary, the energy felt decidedly different, tingling up from the soles of his feet like a tickle, like static charge. It made him twitch and flinch at first, jumping back behind the boundary, then slowly walking back through once he had braced himself for it. It tingled all the way through him, though this time he simply shivered.

Stiles looked back at Deaton and Satomi with a wild, curious expression. “Dude, what _are_ these things? I feel like my whole body just licked a nine volt battery.”

“Thunderbirds,” Satomi said with a fond smile.

* * *

The next two boundaries were both wolf packs, as was the third, which stretched out along the southern border. But the energy at that third boundary felt deeply familiar.

“The border is weak here,” he told them, frowning at a shallow ravine that marked it. “Satomi’s energy is pushing in, and the energy on the other side is too weak to hold it back.” Peter’s territory, he realized. Peter’s weakness.

Stiles walked forward, striding off the edge of the ravine without so much as a blink, his feet striking solid footing in the air until he was on the other side. The energy here felt friendly, like the poodle Deaton had been trying to adopt out from his office, who spun in circles and yipped every time Stiles went back into the kennel to greet her. An over-excited sort of greeting.

_Hi! Welcome! Welcome back! I missed you! Come this way, come with me!_

So he listened, walking on in a sort of hazy trance.

“Stiles?” he heard Deaton calling behind him, but he sounded distant.

_You’re here to help. Help me. Help me. This way._

“Stiles!” Deaton yelled, sharp.

Delayed, Stiles turned back to look at him, shaking his head to clear it a bit. “There’s something over here,” he said, realizing what he was heading toward as he explained. “There’s this place I know. It’s right this way.”

_It’s wrong. All wrong. Help me. This way._

Stiles felt the energy dragging at him, urging him backward, back in the direction he’d been going.

Deaton and Satomi stayed firmly on the other side of the ravine, both of them frowning but dutifully maintaining their own brands of stoicism and calm. “Stiles,” Deaton said. “Please come back.”

“But -”

_This way, come. Come help._

Looking down at himself, Stiles saw that the swirls of light under his skin were starting to glow brighter without any effort on his part.

“I know what you’re looking for,” Deaton said gently, “but that is a very old Hale family secret. And Satomi can’t know where it is. I swore to Talia I would protect it. Please, help me keep my promise.”

Stiles looked to Satomi, whose expression showed not even a hint of surprise. She knew what it was, but she didn’t know where, and she didn’t want to trespass on her dead friend’s secrets. Stiles went back across the ravine.

* * *

In the car on the way back to Beacon Hills, Deaton waited until they were on the highway before he brought up what had happened. “How did you find the Nemeton?” he asked. “Did Peter show you?”

“Huh? Nematode?”

“Nemeton. The…” Deaton frowned and glanced at Stiles out of the corner of his eye. “What were you heading toward at the border into the Hale territory?” This was literally the most consecutive questions Deaton had ever asked him, and Stiles took that to mean that he’d really stepped on a landmine here.

“It’s a tree trunk. I… I had these weird dreams about it.”

“That’s what it’s called: the Nemeton. It was once a powerful tree, used by druids to represent the world itself. It became dormant when it was cut down, but it’s gained some energy back in recent years. More, recently. I’ve been concerned about Peter using it to protect his territory.”

“It doesn’t like him,” Stiles said immediately, and again he found himself unsure of where his conviction on the statement had come from at first. It was just something he knew.

“The Nemeton doesn’t? Did he talk about it?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, I… I don’t think he even knows about it.”

Deaton frowned. “He definitely knows that it exists.”

“Then he doesn’t know where it is,” Stiles insisted. “I could tell. It’s _my _place, not his.” There was a fierce sort of possessiveness in his voice he hadn’t expected, but it felt true.

For a moment, Deaton said nothing, his hands tightening ever-so-slightly on the steering wheel. Finally, he said, “Stiles, in your dreams, what did the area around the Nemeton look like?”

The question made everything click immediately. “It looked like the plane we were on today,” he said quietly, then looked out the window. “I wasn’t dreaming, was I?”

“No, not exactly,” Deaton agreed. He was weighing his words carefully. “What did you do with the Nemeton while you were with Peter?”

Stiles shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable, but feeling now like he had to share the dreams. Now that he knew they weren’t just dreams. “At first, I fought with it. There was something wrong with it, and it was… it was trying to hide what it was and capture me or something? But I put energy into it, and it let me go.” That first dream had been the most frightening by far. In the next, the stump had seemed mistrustful, but not aggressive. Later, it became more welcoming. “After that, I would go to it, I’d push energy into it. I’d just… I’d sort of feel connected with it. It seemed...”

He bit his lip and looked over at Deaton. Though they hadn’t discussed the abuse much, Deaton knew some of it, the general strokes.

“It seemed so hungry,” he admitted softly, “and I knew what that was like. So I fed it.”

“I thought it was Peter,” Deaton murmured, looking over at him with a curious, gentle expression, “but you’re the one that was waking it up. And that’s all it wanted? Energy?”

Stiles twisted his hands between his knees, anxious. “I think it wants me to do something. Help it.”

“Help it with what?”

“Peter,” he said, and Stiles knew it to be true the moment he said it. “It doesn’t like him. He’s wrong. It wants me to...”

To what? To chase Peter off? Kill him? Stiles thought about the most recent dream. That one had been different from the others, hadn’t felt like it was on the same plane as the others had been. It had felt more like a fantasy, but it came from outside of himself. That red glow in the Nemeton in his dream, it had been the same type of pulsing energy that he’d been feeling out all day across Satomi’s territory and the neighboring wolf packs. Stiles remembered the way it felt when he held it in his hands.

He was quiet for a long time as he thought through it, and Deaton left him to it without prodding. Finally, Stiles asked, “Deaton, would it be possible to sort of… to, like, pull an alpha spark out of an alpha? To give it to someone else?”

The car slowed, and Deaton eased them onto the shoulder, parking before he looked over at Stiles. There was an intensity on his face that he saved for moments when Stiles’s abilities really took him by surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“I think the Nemeton wants me to find it a new alpha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is the finale! It will probably not post until Friday due to Thanksgiving and due to there being ten billion things I want to wrap up in it - sorry in advance if it ends up SUPER long.
> 
> I might add an epilogue 32nd chapter, too, but that would be a little further out!


	31. Emissary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grand finale!

“It happened in India, like, a kajillion years ago,” Stiles said, standing with his hands flat against Satomi’s dining room table.

“It was Maharashtra in the late eighteen hundreds,” Deaton corrected with a flat tone Stiles had come to read as snark. “During the height of British colonial rule.”

It had been two months since Stiles first asked Deaton about sapping the alpha spark from Peter. Two months of scouring old texts and cursing Google Translate.

“Right, so anyway,” Stiles continued, “there was this British alpha that came in and he was, like, bad news. He’s stealing shit, hurting people, going after everyone – humans, wolves, other creatures. Just being an all-around dick, right?”

Derek sat between Satomi and Scott on the other end of the table, chin resting in his hand and one eyebrow raised in dubious judgment. “How about you let Deaton tell the story?” he suggested drolly.

“What? I’m great at telling this story!”

Scott gave him an earnest and encouraging nod.

Deaton sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Aside from being an ‘all-around dick,’ the alpha was also upsetting the natural order of the area,” he explained, ignoring Stiles’s scowl. “He was an outsider who came in, intending to profit off the destruction of natural resources. According to the stories that were passed down, this caused the land itself to rebel against him.”

“So then this wizard came in,” Stiles butted in.

“Cool!” said Scott

“A Vedic priest,” Deaton said, a bit louder to talk over them both. “He was called upon by the locals for help. He saw the way the land had turned against the alpha, and he was able to use the opportunity to sap the alpha spark from the invader and pass it over to a worthy local.”

“And you think Stiles could do this to Peter,” Satomi concluded.

Scott sat back in his chair. “Sounds complicated. And like a long shot. Look, I hate to say it, but why not just kill Peter to take him out?”

“Even without a pack, Peter is too strong for Derek to take on,” Deaton advised.

“Satomi could take him easily,” Derek argued.

Satomi placed a hand on Derek’s forearm. “And if I were to kill him, where would the Hale spark go? To me?” She shook her head. “Derek, your family’s territory should stay with you.”

Derek frowned, then looked over at Stiles, then at Deaton. “Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” Deaton answered immediately.

“To Stiles?”

“Yes.” Deaton unfolded his arms and extended a hand toward the large tome open on the table, which depicted the Maharashtra ceremony. The Vedic priest stood in the middle of a circle, twisted into improbable shapes with light radiating off of him in all directions. “The energy of the alpha spark is immense, strong enough that it must make the wolf that bears it stronger than he or she was already, so they’re able to contain it. Even then, the entirety of that energy doesn’t stay within the alpha. It stretches out across the whole territory. For Stiles to pull the spark out of Peter and transfer it to Derek, theoretically he would need to contain all of that energy, if just for a moment.”

“That sounds like it could kill him,” Derek snapped indignantly. “He’s human!”

“Not like _extremely_ human, though,” Stiles reminded him, then waggled his fingers. “Sparky-sparky, remember?”

Scott was frowning. “Derek’s right, Stiles. What if you can’t contain it and you, like, explode or something?”

“Well, I kind of have an idea about that,” Stiles said. He opened up a notebook and used a black sharpie to scrawl a stick figure with a large oval under him. “So here’s Peter, and that’s his territory.” He uncapped a red pen and drew arrows to and from him. “See, the alpha energy is flowing in and out between an alpha and the territory all the time. So if I just tried to pull it out of Peter, energy from the land would just fill in its place. That’s why I’d end up having to contain everything if we wanted to make sure he wasn’t an alpha anymore.”

“And you said you weren’t into art,” Derek commented with a smirk.

“Oh, yeah, well get ready for your portrait, wise-ass.” Stiles drew a second stick figure in black, this one with an upside-down triangle for a body. “That’s you. See, he’s got stupid big muscles.”

“Satomi, they’re always like this,” Scott complained. She just grinned.

“So what if instead of pulling the energy _away _from Peter, I pull some of it _from_ the land and into Derek?” He drew some red arrows toward Derek.

“There can’t be two alphas of a single territory,” Satomi protested immediately. “An alpha spark cannot be shared like that.”

Deaton looked at Stiles’s sad little stick figures with a thoughtful smile, nodding to himself. “Exactly,” he said softly. Then, a little louder, pointing at the picture, “Exactly. If Stiles were able to push alpha energy into Derek, the energy would need to leave one of them. If what Stiles tells us is true, and the Nemeton somehow governs the alpha spark of the Hale territory, there would be a sort of magical consciousness that could decide which alpha to stay with.”

“And it hates Peter,” Stiles added.

There was a lull of silence. Derek was staring at the drawing with pinched brows, frowning. Finally, he said, “How do you know it won’t hate me?”

Stiles huffed a laugh, but it was more confused than amused. “Why the hell would it?”

Derek shrugged a shoulder. “It doesn’t know me. It might not like Peter, but it knows him.” He seemed to hesitate before gently adding, “You can put up with a lot from the devil you know.”

Like Stiles had. Stiles had nearly let Peter kill him because he was too afraid to find out what would happen if he left him. He sank into a chair, hands clasped between his knees. The Nemeton was tethered to Peter, tied to him like Stiles had been, and it was suffering for it like he had. But would Stiles have left Peter if he hadn’t been practically forced into it by circumstance?

He looked up at Derek, who was sweet and protective and gentle and so fucking worthy of being the alpha. How could Stiles show the Nemeton what it was missing?

“We have to show it that you’re a real alpha,” Stiles decided confidently. Then, with noticeably less confidence, he turned to Deaton and said, “How do we show it he’s a real alpha?”

Deaton hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s best to consider what makes the Nemeton consider Peter a _bad_ alpha, then work backward from there.”

“Well, he’s a psycho for one,” Stiles muttered.

“And evil,” Scott suggested.

Satomi shook her head. “Cruel alphas keep their territories all the time. In your story, that alpha had upset the balance. We know Peter has been working dark magic to keep his territory.”

“And doing that instead of acting like a real alpha,” Derek added. “An alpha is supposed to defend his territory because he’s protecting it, not because he’s just… greedy.”

Stiles frowned at the stick figures. There wasn’t exactly a good way to show the Nemeton that Derek wouldn’t practice black magic. “We have to show it that you can protect your territory normally,” he suggested.

“A show of strength, perhaps,” Deaton suggested.

“Betas,” Satomi said firmly. “Peter’s greatest weakness has always been his inability to keep a pack. If you show the Nemeton you have a pack ready to follow you, it will see that you’re a more capable alpha, able to defend your land.”

Derek glanced around the table as they all nodded in agreement. “Okay… but I don’t have any betas,” he reminded them slowly. “And I don’t know that I want to go turning anyone just for this.”

“I’ll be your beta,” Scott said brightly, then cowed a little and peeked around Derek to look at Satomi. “Sorry,” he added, “I mean, it’s just…”

Satomi shook her head and held a hand up for him to stop talking. “It’s a good thing, Scott. You need to be near your family again. Get your life back.”

Deaton sat down finally, drumming his fingers on the table. “It would be best if you had three pack members. Three is a powerful number for an alpha.”

“Well, I’m in your pack,” Stiles offered, but both Derek and Deaton shook their heads immediately. It stung, more than a little, and he felt himself shrinking back. “Because I’m human?” he asked.

“What? No, Stiles,” Derek said quickly, sensing his distress. “No, you can’t be one of the three because you’re my emissary.”

Stiles could have sworn he heard the proverbial needle scratch.

“Sorry, _what_? I thought I needed to be trained first.”

“There’s no rule that says you can’t learn as you go,” Deaton assured him. “Hell, a little trial by fire might do you well.”

Derek ducked his head sheepishly. “Sorry, I should have asked you. If… if this works and I become alpha, do you want to be my emissary?”

Stiles looked around at the four of them like he was waiting for one of them to announce that this was an elaborate prank. When no one did, he said, “Are you supposed to get on one knee for that or something?” Derek snorted, and Stiles went on in a mock swoon, hands clutched to his chest as he batted his eyelashes. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

Scott was grinning, nudging Derek’s shoulder with his own.

“That still leaves two betas,” Satomi reminded them, bringing them back on track. “And, I’m sorry, but no one else in my pack is looking to move to Beacon Hills.”

“Parrish,” Stiles blurted out. “I had a dream about the Nemeton a while back, and he was there.”

“Jordan? My partner? I’m not going to ask him to become a werewolf,” Derek said.

Deaton frowned. “Maybe it’s best to consider other options, then. If you and Peter both have the alpha spark for a period of time, you could be evenly matched in a fight. More than even, if you have Scott,” he suggested.

“Like, a physical fight?” Stiles asked. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the risk and didn’t like the prospect of having to face Peter again.

“Then either the Nemeton judges Derek worthy or he’ll have enough power to be able to take Peter out,” Deaton reasoned.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Derek cut him off. “I like it,” he said, a firmness about his tone. “We’ll do that. It’s the safest for everyone.”

_Not for you_, Stiles thought.

* * *

  
  


“I could just do the first plan,” Stiles suggested softly. “I’d only have to hold the spark for a second.” He spoke the words into Derek’s chest, nose smashed into his sternum and arms twined tightly around his middle.

Derek carded his fingers through Stiles’s hair and sighed. “You know I don’t want you to do that. The risk is too big. It’ll be fine. This is a good plan.”

It was four in the afternoon, the sun already slanting toward the horizon, leaving the sky pale and washed-out looking outside the bedroom window. In eight hours, they would go to the Nemeton for the ceremony. It had to be midnight the night of the new moon. Stiles had suggested an afternoon nap since they’d be up late, but he was so anxious, he didn’t think sleep would come.

Stiles lifted his head, chin resting where his nose had been and stared up at Derek, who had his eyes closed. His jaw was clenched, though. He was trying to look calm, but Stiles knew his tells. “What if he wins, though?”

“The only reason I couldn’t take Peter in a fight right now is because of his alpha spark,” Derek insisted. “I’m younger, more physically fit, and I’ll have a beta with me.”

“He’s got the monster form, though,” Stiles reminded him.

Derek sighed heavily and reached down, catching Stiles under the armpits and flipping them over so Stiles was pinned under his weight. They ended up nose-to-nose, Derek’s hazel eyes bearing down on him. “Stiles. It’s going to be fine. I need you to believe that, okay? Because if you believe it, then it will be.”

Stiles reached up, tracing Derek’s jaw with his palm. He’d let his stubble grow out just shy of a full beard. “Okay. I’ll believe it for you.”

Derek kissed him, murmuring, “Thank you,” against his lips. He rocked his hips down slowly. “You know, I think maybe I love you?” he said, feigning surprise.

“Oh yeah?” Stiles said, grinning and playing along. “That’d be pretty crazy, ‘cause I might love you, too. Just maybe.” He scratched at Derek’s scalp, and Derek tipped his head up with a satisfied groan.

“Oh, yeah. I definitely love you,” he rumbled.

* * *

After his adventures on the other plane with Deaton and Satomi, Stiles had gone to the Nemeton in person once, with Deaton. That had been during the day. Here, in the pitch dark of night with no moon, it felt much more foreboding. The flashlights cast shadows as they swept through the clearing, then there it was, wide and dark and thrumming with power.

“It’s waiting for us,” Stiles whispered.

“That’s creepy,” Scott whispered back.

“Why are you chuckleheads whispering? There’s no one around for miles,” Derek said at full volume.

They set up a lantern beside the Nemeton to give Stiles light to work by. He’d practiced the setup for the ceremony dozens of times with Deaton. Even so, he felt his hands trembling a little as he set out and lit the candles at the four cardinal directions along the edges of the stump. In the center, in chalk, he carefully drew the Shri Yantra, a Hindu symbol of the cosmos. Most of this ceremony they were borrowing from the Maharashtra ceremony. Stiles draped a necklace of rudraksha seeds around his neck. Between the candles and the lantern, the clearing was dimly lit all the way out to the trees.

“Okay, I’m going under,” Stiles told them, settling cross-legged in the center of the Nemeton.

Stiles and Scott stood off to the side of the Nemeton, both of them obviously trying very hard to calm their nerves and give him some quiet. It took a moment for Stiles to calm his jittery heart rate and racing thoughts, to let his breathing level out. Then he started to chant.

It took Stiles ages to memorize the Sanskrit mantra they’d chosen for the ceremony, but it essentially translated to,

_May the rulers of the earth protect the well-being of the people_

_With justice, by means of the right path_

Then the second mantra, which had been considerably easier to memorize, “Neti-Neti”

_Not this, not this_.

As he moved into the second, Stiles imagined reaching backward in time, speaking the words to himself, six months ago. Wanting to hold his own hand and tell himself that he deserved so much better, that he deserved happiness and freedom.

_Not this, not this_.

If the Nemeton was like he had been, chained to a madman and feeling like it had no escape, he wanted to treat it like he should have treated himself – with compassion, understanding, and a certainty that there was something better coming its way.

Slipping into the other plane felt a bit like going underwater. One moment he was chanting in the brisk cold of a November night. The next, opening his eyes, he saw the ebbing and flowing of red energy to and from the Nemeton. The telltale swirls of orange light stood out on his skin. He could see shadows where he knew Scott and Derek were standing on the waking plane.

Right. Time to get started.

The first order of business was to use the alpha spark to guide Peter in their direction. They didn’t want him to get all the way to the Nemeton, but they needed him close enough that Derek and Scott could find him to fight him.

Stiles felt a little queasy as he followed the trailing red energy out from the Nemeton, searching.

_Show me where he is. Show me your wrong alpha. I’m here to help._

He felt himself tugged along down one of the roots, and in the next moment, there he was:

Peter.

He was standing on the back porch of his house, leaning over the balcony and smoking a cigarette. His body coursed with the red alpha energy, sluggishly pulsing into and out of him like it could hardly stand to be there. Stiles was standing in the yard below, but he could see the curl of Peter’s lips as he smiled and blew smoke into the cold night air.

“I was wondering when you’d come for me,” Peter said, speaking well above Stiles’s head.

Stiles shivered. He knew Peter couldn’t see him on this plane – he was back on the Nemeton, guarded by Derek and Scott, safe and sound – but he could sense him. Just hearing the man’s voice after all this time made him want to turn and run.

Reaching down, he wrapped his hands around one of the veins of alpha spark that lead into Peter. It was uncomfortably hot to the touch. Stiles took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then _pulled_.

Above him, Peter growled. “What are you up to, you little shit?”

He pulled and started to drift back the way he’d come, urging Peter after him. Peter vaulted over the railing of the porch, landed lightly on the grass, then charged Stiles at a full sprint.

In a second, Stiles was back on the Nemeton. He surfaced halfway, able to see Derek and Scott but still able to see the trails of energy around them.

“Dude!” Scott said, wide-eyed. “You’re glowing!”

“He’s coming,” Stiles said, reaching a hand toward Derek. “Come here. We have to do it now.”

Both of Derek’s hands closed around his one hand, and Stiles pressed the other to the surface of the Nemeton, in the center of the Shri Yantra. Squeezing his eyes shut, he started the first chant.

_May the rulers of the earth protect the well-being of the people_

_With justice, by means of the right path_

On the exhale, he pressed his own energy down into the stump. On the inhale, he pulled the alpha spark up through his arm, across his body, urging it through to Derek’s hands. It burned as it coursed through his chest. _This is him,_ he tried to convey to the Nemeton. _This is your protector_.

_May the rulers of the earth protect the well-being of the people_

_With justice, by means of the right path_

Derek made a surprised, slightly pained sound, curling forward toward Stiles. Exhale, inhale. Push, pull. By means of the right path. Push, pull. Exhale, inhale.

Stiles felt something catch inside of himself, pull taut, and his eyes flew open. In front of him, Derek stood, hunched forward, fangs bared in a snarl, eyes glowing red. “Oh holy fuck,” Stiles breathed.

“Is it done?” Derek asked, speech impeded by his fangs. He was panting, sweating.

Nodding, Stiles let go of his hand and nodded in the direction that he’d found Peter. “Go on. He’s coming. You’re ready.”

Derek nodded, looking a little out of it. He turned, made it three steps, then stumbled and fell to his hands and knees.

“Derek!” Scott shouted, hurrying over to him, crouching at his side. “Come on, you gotta get up.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Stiles demanded.

“I dunno, man, he looks rough,” Scott whined.

Stiles could feel Peter getting closer. It felt like a tether had been tied between him and Derek, and Stiles was holding on somewhere in the middle of it. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. He had no idea what was wrong, how to fix it. Peter was coming, and Derek couldn’t even stand up.

Peter would kill them all.

He let himself slip lower again, wanting to know how far out Peter was. It didn’t work on the first try, panic too sharp on his tongue. On the second, he slipped under, and he could see a snarled mess of energy snaking between Derek, Peter, the Nemeton, and Stiles. It seemed angry, inflamed. Scott had a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and the alpha spark glowed brighter at the point of contact.

Behind him, Stiles felt something else, another warm glow coming toward him. He stood and spun around. There, jogging out from the treeline, was Jordan Parrish in full uniform. His eyes were glowing bright orange, and the energy around him looked like smoke and flames.

“Stiles?” he said, confused. “What the hell is going on here?”

Stiles surfaced from the trance slightly, enough to turn his head in the waking world, to meet Parrish’s eyes. “Derek needs help! Go help Derek!” he called, pointing the way.

The man sprinted across the clearing to Derek, placed his hand on Derek’s back, and the alpha energy glowed just a bit brighter at the contact. Derek snarled in pain, and Stiles wanted to go to him, but he knew he couldn’t be the third. The third was coming. Had to be.

From his left, a woman’s voice called, “Okay, where is it!”

Stiles’s head whipped to the side to find a red-haired young woman standing at the edge of the clearing. She wore a peacoat and a fluffy white pill hat, and her white-gloved fists on her hips. “Where’s what?” Stiles asked.

“The dead body,” she snapped, impatient. “Whenever I go all hazy and end up in a strange place, there’s _always_ a dead body.”

It clicked. The red hair, the fugue state. Hell, the shape of her nose. Lydia fucking Martin. A grin cracked Stiles’s face from ear to ear, and he jumped to his feet. “No dead body today. Not on my watch. But this guy here needs your help.”

She hesitated a moment, then they both startled as a loud crashing came from the woods ahead of Derek, Scott, and Parrish. Lydia rushed forward, slowed down by heeled boots that were more fashionable than they were practical. The second her hand touched Derek’s back, the alpha spark flared to life, brighter and more brilliant than Stiles had ever seen it.

From where he stood, he couldn’t see Derek crouched under the other three, but he heard him shout in time with the spark, the sound morphing slowly into a ground-shaking low howl.

Peter broke through the trees in full shift, huge and hulking, red eyes glowing bright. Lydia, Jordan, and Scott all stepped back and to the side as a wolf – a full-on black-furred wolf leapt forward at him.

_My mom could shift so she looked exactly like a wolf,_ Derek had told him. _It’s a sign of a powerful leader._

Stiles whooped and punched the air. What other proof could the Nemeton possibly ask for? Three pack members, an emissary, and an alpha with a full wolf shift. “Come on, you clever old tree stump!” he urged as he watched Peter and Derek circle one another. The tangle of alpha spark between them was raging, brutally bright. There couldn’t be two alphas of the same territory. It was against the laws of nature, of magic. “Make the right choice. You know what you deserve. You don’t deserve control and abuse. You don’t deserve to be used to satisfy one man’s ego. You deserve a protector, a leader, someone that will create a pack and a family and take care of this territory. You deserve _Derek_.”

The tether between them snapped, and Stiles flew backward with the force of it, flying off the Nemeton and landing on his back in the grass. His ears were ringing, and the wind had been knocked out of him. Stiles lay still, gasping for breath for a moment.

When he finally managed to sit up, he saw that the candles had been blown out, so they only had the lantern light. Across the clearing, Peter was in a beta shift, lying on the ground, cowering from the huge black wolf standing over him with glowing red eyes.

Scott, his eyes glowing yellow, stepped up behind Derek. Jordan and Lydia hung back, stunned and looking like they had no idea what the hell was going on here. Stiles supposed they had a whole lot of catching up to do after this.

Slowly, the wolf seemed to unfold, rising up onto its hind legs, fur sinking into skin until it was just Derek, bare-ass naked and glaring at Peter. “Get the hell out of my territory,” he growled.

Peter sprang to his feet and took off through the woods. If he’d had a tail, it would have been between his legs.

Derek turned toward Stiles, who was still sprawled out in the grass, propped up on his hands. He strode across the clearing with no apparent shame at his nakedness. Not that there was anything to be ashamed of. God, he was unbelievably gorgeous. “Are you alright?” Derek asked.

“Fine, but I think I just developed a new kink,” Stiles muttered.

He let Derek pull him to his feet, then leaned in and kissed him until he felt dizzy.

When they finally parted, Stiles glanced over Derek’s shoulder toward the awkwardly waiting pack members. “Uh, maybe pants? You’re really putting the ‘pack’ in ‘package’ right now.”

Derek snorted, but headed for the heap of clothes he’d left on the grass. The shirt, apparently, had ripped along the side seam when he shifted, so he tossed that aside.

Lydia spoke up while he got dressed. “So is anyone going to tell us what the hell is going on here?”

“Well, Lydia, my dear,” Stiles sighed. “It’s a pretty long story. But let’s start with this ‘I see dead people’ thing you have going on, huh?”

They all gathered together, heading out of the clearing and introducing those that needed introductions. Jordan and Lydia seemed to have latched onto one another as the newcomers of the group, and they were walking a bit ahead.

“I hope you guys drove here,” Jordan said to Derek over his shoulder. “I think I ran here. It was weird. I just sort of blanked out and ended up running through the woods.”

“Ugh, the worst,” said Lydia. “Do you have any idea how many clothes I’ve ruined that way?”

“What are you guys anyway?” Scott asked, jogging a couple of steps to catch up to them.

Stiles felt Derek’s hand slip into his, their fingers lacing. He looked over at him and smiled. “You know, a brand new alpha like you, I think you might need an emissary.”

“Huh,” Derek said, and squeezed his hand. “That’s not a bad idea.”

The other three were ahead of them, Scott explaining werewolves and magic in a haphazard way that was probably confusing Lydia and Jordan more.

“You think Deaton would be interested?” Derek said after a moment.

Stiles punched him on the arm and laughed. “Shut up, you’re not funny.”

“I’m a little bit funny,” Derek argued. He reeled Stiles closer by their hands, instead wrapping his arm around Stiles’s shoulders. “You know, I think maybe I love you?” he said softly.

Stiles tipped his head sideways onto Derek’s shoulder. “That’s crazy,” he said. “Cause I think I might love you, too.”

“That is pretty crazy,” Derek agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Thank you so much for all of the comments and encouragement. I really hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it <3
> 
> And if you're just discovering this fic now, please still feel free to comment or hit me up on Tumblr! This was a labor of love and I still love hearing that other people have enjoyed it. I promise I am 100% nice and easy to talk to.


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